


the fire's found a home in me

by peachbees



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sith!Leia, Trans Male Character, inquisitor!mara, possibly brief smut but i haven't decided, prince!luke, trigger warnings per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9635969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachbees/pseuds/peachbees
Summary: The crown prince of Alderaan, although relatively slim in stature, still carries the round, rosy cheeks of youth—and although royalty, he bears not the Queen nor the Viceroy’s dark, sleek hair or smooth, tanned skin; blonde fringe instead sweeps across his forehead, curling softly about his pale face. There’s something delicate about him, a quiet strength acquired from a sheltered, yet diplomatic childhood—and something so incredibly, impossibly kind. His kindness bursts forth from him like the thick, sweet juice of a violet burrfruit and drips from him like nectar because there’s just too much to contain, and it must beshared. That kindness trails behind him wherever he goes, and as does his beauty. They call himthe Face that Launched a Thousand X-Wings.Or, the one where the Organas took the first born child, and  the second went to a place far less warm and fuzzy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello, everyone! ☆ ～('▽^人) 
> 
> as promised, my sith!leia au is back, and i've tied it into rogue one! i want to thank everyone who gave me comments and kudos on the first edition--your feedback and praise really helped motivate me to rewrite this au!! and it just made me super happy (o˘◡˘o) 
> 
> my decision to have luke and cassian be a couple came after i watched rogue one, and i'm going to investigate that a little further throughout the fic. han will obviously show up, and there's going to be skysolo eventually, but it might not be for a while. skysolo WILL be endgame, so no need to worry there. 
> 
> other guest stars are going to show up throughout the story from the original trilogy and rebels! 
> 
> there aren't really any trigger warnings for this chapter, aside from mentions of death, but once the chapters do start getting more triggery, i'll place a warning at the beginning and then give the context of each one at the end. if there's any triggers you'd like to be warned about that you're not sure if i'd include, shoot me a message on tumblr @poehomo, and i'll be sure to give a warning for it if/when it appears! 
> 
> anyway, enough of me! please enjoy the fic, and let me know if you liked it!! ♡

 

_0 BBY, Imperial Occupied Space._

 

“You are doing that thing again, Captain,” notes the monk with the cloudy eyes as he sits on an old storage crate towards the side of the aircraft. His staff remains as it has the entire trip, standing straight upwards with his hands layered on top of it. His eyes remain trained on the wall across from him. Cassian Andor wonders, as he paces from one length of the ship to the other with his arms crossed, how someone who sees nothing can observe so much. “You’re pacing,” the monk elaborates. He gently taps the end of his staff against the metal floor. “I can feel the vibrations from your feet against the ground.” Chirrut Îmwe’s lips tilt upwards at one side, showing off just a glint of his teeth as he grins. “I can feel the Force, fluttering around you. You’re nervous.”

“I’m not pacing—and I’m not nervous,” Andor replies nerv ously as he continues pacing. He tightens his crossed arms as another flicker of anxiety jitters through his belly. 

“He’s pacing.” The assassin, Îmwe’s friend and long-suffering _babysitter_ gives a low chuckle and strokes a weathered hand over his dark beard, which the years have streaked with gray. “And he is as nervous as the day is long, Chirrut.” 

Cassian’s feet still, but he keeps his arms crossed. A crooked finger reaches up to scratch at the side of his nose, and then rub under his eye. It’s a habit of his. It’s his tell. It’s what gives him away. “I’m not nervous,” he insists, this time with a little more confidence. If he says that he’s not nervous, then he can convince others that he’s not nervous; if he convinces others that he’s not nervous, then he can convince himself that he’s not nervous; if he convinces himself that he’s not nervous, then he will surely stop being nervous altogether. 

The pilot’s goggles jiggle atop his head of long, dark hair as he gives a hurried nod. “No, you are,” he stutters quickly, and then looks to Malbus to show that yes, he agrees, “I mean, you—you look nervous, at least.” 

“I’m _not._ ”Alright, fine. Let the record show that Captain Cassian Andor of the Galactic Rebellion may or may not be slightly… _agitated._ Not nervous. Agitated. (He’s nervous.) He can say he’s agitated about Galen Erso, about his giant death machine that completely leveled the holy city of Jedha. He can say he’s agitated about his stony-faced daughter, and this supposed secret message about his deadly weapon’s fatal flaw. He can say he’s agitated about the future, about the growing strength of the Empire. Sure, these are all things that have him ner— _agitated_ , but they aren’t why he paces. They aren’t why he crosses his arms tight and rubs his eye, scratches his nose. No, that _agitation_ can be contributed to one cause alone. 

“Yes, you are,” announces his droid, Kay Teusso as he descends from the cockpit, turning his small, rounded black head to face him, “It’s the pattern. There’s a ninety-six percent chance that you’ll experience sensations of anxiety upon returning to base because there’s at least a seventy-five-point-three percent chance of”—

“Kay—

The droid lifts a long arm and big hand. “I’m not finished.” Cassian rolls his eyes and really regrets giving this big old bucket of bolts any kind of personality. “There’s at least a seventy-five point three percent chance of seeing your _betrothed_ ”—

“Betrothed?” asks Jyn Erso, glancing up from her hands. She hasn’t said much since they got back on the ship, and she’s barely looked at Cassian since their little spat about her father. She sounds surprised, like until now she believed the Captain to be incapable of experiencing anything but righteous anger and sarcastic irritation. Perhaps she’s assumed that there’s no room in his heart for anything else but the Rebel cause. She says as such. “I’m surprised you’ve found someone willing to put up with all your _lies_.” 

Malbus gives a hearty laugh, an unexpected one. It’s loud. It makes the pilot jump only slightly, though he tries very hard to hide it. Nobody can hide anything from Cassian Andor. He’s been trained to see everything. “I knew those weren’t just pregame jitters…the boy is in love!”

“The Force _did_ feel different around you,” Îmwe observes with a grin, tapping the end of his staff against the floor again. He lets the vibrations travel up the shaft and into his hands. “Not nervous—excited.”

“A little bit nervous,” offers Kay. 

“A little bit nervous,” repeats Bodhi Rook with a slight nod. He seems to have a lot of experience with being nervous himself. “I mean, I’m supposing it’s a good nervous.” When Cassian’s face doesn’t give any tells, he tries again. “Or maybe…a not so good nervous?” 

“I’m not nervous,” he snaps again, for the umpteenth time, “And he’s _not_ my betrothed.” Cassian’s eyes suddenly become very fixated on his shoes. “Not yet.” 

Kay lifts his tall body from the chair and lumbers out onto the hangar. His shuttering eyes flicker and shift towards the ceiling. _He’s rolling his eyes._ “I knew you wouldn’t have the guts to do it.” 

Jyn, still distracted and staring at her gloves again (the gloves that held her dying father—that won’t be something she’ll get over easily. She should just throw out the gloves and move on. War has casualties, and it’s not exactly as if she’d known Galen Erso _well_ …), knits her brow. “Do what? Break his trust? Lie to him?” She’s really gotta let this go… 

Bodhi fills in the blanks for her. “ _Propose_ ,” he supplies, and then looks to Kay for confirmation, “Right?”

“I told him he wouldn’t follow through. Didn’t I, Cassian?” He sounds smug, the way he always does whenever he’s right about something. “I told you that there was a thirty point six-oh chance that you would see the opportunity to propose to the Prince, and that you would convince yourself to back out”—

“Prince?” Jyn asks curiously. Everyone else seems to lean forward, paying rapt attention and waiting for more information. If only Cassian could get them to listen like this when he tried discussing _important rebel business_ with them. If only they cared as much about the _cause_ as they did about _frivolous gossip_ about his _love life_. 

Kay inclines his head as if to nod. “Oh, yes,” he explains, “His highness, Prince Organa, is quite the staple on base—out of the cycle, he spends between thirty-five and fifty days on Yavin IV, and roughly sixty-five point eight-nine-one percent of those days are spent _canoodling_ with”—

“Be quiet,” Cassian mutters as he leans against the wall, staring down at his boots again. They’re just a little bit scuffed, and caked with mud and dust and sand. He should clean them up, if _You Know Who_ is coming to base—and the chances of that are high. He has to look his best. After all, this is royalty we’re talking about… 

Baze grins and lifts his hand, folding his fingers forward in a request for more. “No, keep talking, droid. I want to know all about our good Captain’s…” His eyebrows quirk and his grin tilts. “ _Betrothed_.” 

“They’re not betrothed yet,” Bodhi reminds him. “Why…aren’t they betrothed yet, exactly?” He could very easily just ask Cassian this and receive a carefully rehearsed answer about war and duty, and how the cause must be placed above all other things…even love. Because if the Empire wipes them all out, there will be nothing left to love or be loved by. But instead, they seem very interested in the tale that Kay has begun to spin.

“ _He_ will tell you that it’s duty that stands in the way.” Kay jerks his head towards Cassian, who turns and climbs the ladder towards the cockpit. 

He doesn’t have to hear this anymore. He knows the answer, he knows why he won’t ask, even if the question burns in his mouth like a hot coal every time he tries to speak. He doesn't need it sold back to him with expert sass and precise statistics. He sits down in the pilot’s seat and looks back down at his shoes. They’re filthy. All of him right now is filthy—his hands, his hair, his clothes. Just one touch, and he’ll sully the Prince completely. He knocks his boots together, watching dense chunks of dirt from Jedha (all that’s left of Jedha, it all happened so fast…) and clumps of mud from Eadu fall away and onto the floor.

Kay Teusso’s voice echoes in the distance, and Cassian can hear every word. He’s heard them before, usually in his own voice as he confided in his droid with a heavy, aching heart about all the reasons why his union with his beloved can never be. He shoves his headset over his head in hopes of blocking out the sound. It does next to nothing and Cassian gives a frustrated huff and leans back in his chair. The ship continues bumping along through space on its way to Yavin IV. Streaks of black sky and white stars shoot past the window and Cassian picks at his nails anxiously as he waits for them to reach their destination. He tries to scrape the mud and dirt from underneath them, as if to make his killer’s hands worthy of touching soft, unmarred skin. Instead, the dirt only gets pushed back further. 

He doesn’t have to hear Kay’s voice to know what he’s saying. He’s laying Cassian’s soul out bare down there, spreading it out naked for everyone to see (and hear) and poke at. It’s utterly humiliating, and does nothing but serves as a reminder that his insecurities might be pathetic, but they sound even _stupider_ when being dictated aloud. Cassian tries his best not to sulk as he listens to his droid talk all about his feelings of inadequacy, of impurity, of his lack of royal blood (the most important thing in courting a Prince, or so he’s been told), recounting all the times he’s expressed that he doesn’t feel good enough. He fails at this and his lips slowly sink into a frown. 

“I have expressed on several occasions that there is avery high chance of success if he stops dragging his feet and finally makes his proposal,” Kay-Teu continues, “But he simply…refuses to ask.” Cassian’s back straightens out as he listens. Kay almost sounds…sad. 

“Do you want him to ask?” Bodhi asks quietly.

“I do.” This makes Cassian’s brow furrow. “I want Cassian to be happy, as I am his only friend, and I may not always be here.” Of course he’ll always be here, he’s Cassian’s best friend, his sole companion—where else would he go? Then, Kay Teusso says something very quietly, something that Cassian very obviously isn’t meant to hear but does so anyway. He’s Rebel intelligence. He’s been trained to hear everything. “If this war concludes and he runs out of battles to fight…I fear not even I can predict how he’ll fare on his own. What I can predict is that the chances of an organic mate improving his quality of life are high, and—oh.” Kay lowers his long arms. “I do hope you didn’t hear all that, but I know that you did.”

Cassian releases the rung of the ladder and his feet hit the ground. “Hear what, Kay?” he asks nonchalantly, giving his metal torso a pat. “Get upstairs and help me set us down.” 

“If it’s any consolation,” Bodhi blurts out, taking clumsy but precise steps forward, “I think you should do it.” 

Baze, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, gives a curt nod. “I do too.” 

“I agree,” Chirrut seconds from his seat on the crate.

Jyn takes her time looking up from her gloves at him. This time, her eyes aren’t filled with anger and betrayal—only confusion. She can’t seem to comprehend how someone so willing to shoot down a war criminal can also experience such things as love. When she finally nods, all she says is “Yeah.”

Cassian plays it off. Lying, as Jyn has been highlighting for this entire trip, is a strong suit of his. “Do what, guys?” He climbs back up towards the cockpit. “Get yourselves ready, we’re landing in ten.” He lowers himself back into the pilot’s chair and returns his headset to its rightful place on his head. “You ready to get us on the ground, Kay?” he asks, glancing over to his companion.

Kay-Teu begins adjusting the switches on the control panel to prepare for landing. “I know you heard me,” he tells Cassian after am moment of silence, “I cannot be fooled.” 

“I’m not trying to fool you, Kay.” Quickly, he shifts his attention to the crackling static at the other end of his receiver. “This is Captain Andor. We’re coming in—requesting permission to land.”

_“We read you loud and clear, Captain. Permission granted. Welcome back, sir.”_

Cassian leans back in his chair with a sigh of relief. He’s home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, loves!!! ヽ(♡‿♡)ノ welcome back!! i just want to thank everyone for all their support so far, especially the likes and kudos!! i've had so much fun creating this au, and i'm so excited that i finally get to share it with you!! i'd especially like to thank j @lukeskyliquor, my dearest friend and co-conspirator, to whom i dedicate this au and all my others. 
> 
> i can't hint too much at what's to come, but i promise that this piece will be very expansive, and span over the course of the original trilogy, incorporating characters from rebels and the sw legends 'verse as well as characters from rogue one. i also have a follow-up piece/sequel planned, but that's to come way later. 
> 
> also, as a sidenote, this chapter does contain a good amount of flashbacks. that's a theme that i'll probably stick to throughout the fic, but i do understand that flashbacks can be a little cumbersome sometimes, and i apologize in advance for that (・_・;) 
> 
> please let me know what you guys think!! enjoy!! (・‿・)ノ

_0 BBY. Yavin IV._

On the jungle planet below Cassian Andor’s impounded Imperial cargo vessel, Alderaanian Viceroy Bail Organa walks closely alongside his son. Two droids follow along behind them; the first, stout and cylindrical, rolls easily across the dusty ground and the second, golden and manlike, toddles along primly. 

Bail Organa, graying at the temples, is no stranger to emergency committees during wartime. During the Clone Wars, he’d met with various other senators on very short notice, as well as the Jedi generals and commanders. One of these generals, he hopes, will receive his message before it’stoo late. Each day, the Empire grows more and more powerful, and the galaxy has become like an unlit match dipped in jet fuel: it’s ready to blow at any second. Viceroy Organa only prays that the Alliance will come through when it does. He walks regally, each step with purpose, his hands clasped behind his back. 

The boy, on the other hand, walks with far less elegance. 

The crown prince of Alderaan, although relatively slim in stature, still carries the round, rosy cheeks of youth—and although royalty, he bears not the Queen nor the Viceroy’s dark, sleek hair or smooth, tanned skin; blonde fringe instead sweeps across his forehead, curling softly about his pale face. There’s something delicate about him, a quiet strength acquired from a sheltered, yet diplomatic childhood—and something so incredibly, impossibly kind. His kindness bursts forth from him like the thick, sweet juice of a violet burrfruit and drips from him like nectar because there’s just too much to contain, and it must be _shared_. That kindness trails behind him wherever he goes, and as does his beauty. They call him the _Face that Launched a Thousand X-Wings._

Beauty and kindness are rare commodities in these times: ones that the Empire might wish to sequester, and dampen, and obliterate from the galaxy—thus preventing anyone from ever weaponizing it against them. 

His blue eyes keep looking to the sky as he listens to his father speak. He tries to force them back down onto Bail Organa’s bearded face, but every few moments they flicker upwards again, towards the clouds. In fact, he finds himself so focused on the sky above him that he loses track of everything else, and nearly trips over the hem of his own long, white cloak. 

“Luke,” warns the Viceroy, not unkindly, as he grasps his son’s arm, “Be careful.” 

Prince Luke Organa ducks his head with a shy grin and peeks up at his father bashfully through his eyelashes. “I’m sorry, Papa, I just can’t stop thinking…When will I be allowed to fly with them?” 

The weariness in Viceroy Organa’s eyes tells the tale of a stubborn, ambitious boy who still hasn’t grown out of his childhood dream. He sighs and rubs Luke’s arm gently. “I’ve told you before, Luke, you’re needed with the Senate, and”—

“And it’s too dangerous, and I’m too young, and it would look bad if a member of the royal family of pacifist Alderaan took up arms, I know.” Luke’s lips purse. He’s had this dream of his shot down countless times before, and it’s not fair. “ But I can _help_.” 

“You _are_ helping,” his father promises him firmly, “The humanitarian work you’ve done is critical to the survival of the Alliance, and of the worlds struggling to escape from underneath the foot of the Empire.” Organa stops his walking and sets both his hands on his son’s slight shoulders. 

The boy has a familiar fire in him, a tenacity that Bail has never seen, save for in the eyes of a young senator from Naboo. Her blood flows through him, and it shows in his kindness, and his passion, and his strength. But still, he is a son of Alderaan, hopeful, and gentle, and peace-loving—even if that often conflicts with his ambition and dreams of the sky. 

“The work you’ve done with the refugees here has been invaluable. And I must admit…” Viceroy Organa’s hands rise to brush Luke’s hair from his eyes before his palms rest upon his cheeks. “Your mother and I have been a bit selfish. We don’t want you getting hurt, Luke. I know you’re an excellent pilot”—He’s one of the best pilots Bail Organa has ever seen. 

Second only to the late Jedi General Anakin Skywalker.

Luke’s genetics have made him prone to trouble. It’s given him an edge that Viceroy Organa and his wife can never hope to smooth away. They’re not even sure they want to. 

When Luke begins to turn his head, Bail strokes his face gently. “I also know that you think we’re treating you like a child,” he continues, “And I know how frustrating that is for you, but—you are our greatest treasure, Luke, our greatest love.” 

“Your most prized possession,” Luke mutters. However, he can’t fight the smile that slowly spreads across his face. Not even a royal upbringing and a position in the Senate can stop the universal snark of a young adult struggling for independence. 

Bail smiles too, lowering his hands and smoothing out Luke’s cloak for him. “Yes, that as well. You know we only wish to protect you.” His voice slides away into something softer, more distant. “Someday, there may be a time when we aren’t there to do that, and you’ll need to defend yourself. You will know what to do.” 

“That’ll never happen.” Now, the boy grins so widely that his nose crinkles at the bridge, “You won’t go away—you love controlling every aspect of my life enough for that.” His laugh reminds Bail so much of Padmé Amidala that it makes his heart clench, but he laughs too, and they laugh together.

Suddenly, there’s a shift. 

Luke’s eyes search the ground now, not the sky.

Bail decides to consider this a blessing. Anything to keep the boy's eyes off of the soaring X-Wings above. He rubs his hands over his son’s shoulders. “What is it you’re looking for, my son?” He asks, but he’s quite certain that he knows the answer. 

“That cargo ship.” Luke’s white cloak billows as he points to the vessel sending clouds of orange dust into the sky as it lands. “That’s…Imperial. And they’re letting it land. What’s happening? Who’s on it? Is it that pilot? The one with the secret message?” He begins to almost vibrate with excitement, glowing like a kyber crystal in a Jedi’s lightsaber. Bail knows that the boys’ thoughts, although occupied on _someone_ inside that cargo ship, are not occupied by the mysterious Imperial defector. 

Bail has spent many a meeting arguing with his advisors about the possible (probable…inevitable…) marriage between his son and Captain Cassian Andor. When an Organa becomes betrothed, it’s a planetary affair, and everyone, even those who would do best to keep their mouths shut, has something to say about it. 

( _“It can never be! That man is a menace! An instigator for the Rebellion!”_

_“Our standing with the Empire has been bad enough! We’re barely scraping by without suspicion! What will happen if we allow our prince to marry a Rebel captain? Only bad things will come of this union, Viceroy!”_

_“There is, of course, the question of royal blood—and securing an heir!”_

_“In case I must remind you, counselors, my son is perfectly capable of producing an heir with another man. The child could be carried by someone else, but still be theirs.” He wanted to ask what blood was to a family anyway—what blood was to_ **_Alderaan_ ** _. It was a poorly kept secret that Luke bore neither his nor Breha’s blood in his veins. They had never addressed the rumors about a Jedi baby, rescued from the Temple before the dark hands of Lord Vader closed in. It wasn’t true anyway. But regardless of_ **_blood_ ** _, Luke was still his son, and the rightful heir to their planet’s throne. “But regardless”—_

_“It would be an outrage! A scandal! This cannot be allowed!”_

_The cacophony of confused and confrontational voices continued clouding the air until finally, Queen Breha Organa raised a slim, delicate hand. The world fell silent at her attention. “Counselors,” she began calmly, smoothly. Her voice soothed over the sores in the room like a balm. “Let us put aside matters of duty and reputation and look at the heart of the matter here: love.” Her dark, velvety blue dress shifted around her body as she rose from her seat. “As Alderaanians, we have always vowed to protect the beauty in the galaxy—art, philosophy, music, dance, literature, education…” Murmurs of agreement rose through the crowd. “But what are we, as protectors of peace and beauty, if we do not protect love? Of all things,_ **_that_ ** _is what we must defend the most viscously—_ **_that_ ** _is our advantage over the Empire._ **_That_ ** _is what we have, and what they do not.” She lowered herself back into her chair and folded her hands delicately in her lap. “There will be no more talk of scandal, or of outrage, or of tradition. This is an uncertain age, but love must_ **_always_ ** _remain the constant, and we must be vigilant to protect it.”_

_"That was a very rousing speech,” Bail whispered into her ear. Her hair was soft, and dark, braided in a crown atop her head. She smelled of sweet winter jasmine and freshly fallen snow. He loved her now as he had always loved her: deeply, with every inch of himself. He only hoped that their son might someday be able to have something akin to this bond they had, and he only hoped that Captain Andor might be able to give it to him._

_Her smile, soft and subtle, was not lost to his seeking eyes. “I know,” she murmured. Her soft fingers slid along his forearm before resting on his hand. “I learned from the best.”_

_From then on, there was no more talk of scandal, or outrage, or tradition—and all matters of duty and reputation were put aside._ ) 

Now, all Captain Andor needs to do is _ask_. If and when he does, Luke will say yes, and Bail and Breha will give their blessing, counselors and traditions be damned. 

“I know what you’re really looking for,” Bail offers with a wry smile, “Now go.” 

Luke needs no more encouragement than that. He takes off towards the landing pad, sprinting at first before remembering _who he is_ and slowing down to a pace somewhere between a jog and a brisk walk. Bail knows he can never control him, never reign him in. He doesn’t want to. Luke thrives among rebellion like a flower in the desert, just as his blood mother had. If only she had lived to see her son so accomplished and so free. He has her smile, and her mind, and her spirit. He has her fire. He has her kindness and her genius. He has Skywalker’s easy going sense of humor and penchant for mischief as well as his skill in the air. If he had survived the Emperor’s purge (may the Force be with him and every other fallen Jedi), he would have probably allowed his son to go off flying wherever he wanted, and trained him with an elegant but dangerous weapon. 

Bail is…glad he and Breha got to keep him. They’ve given him the best life they can—the best education, the most love a child could ever ask for and more. They’ve never held back his curiosity, save when it placed him in danger. Bail has always held his hand but now, he realizes as he watches his son bob about anxiously by the freshly landed ship, he is about to give his hand over to another man, one who is right for him, one who will hold him for the rest of his life.

Luke wrings his hands from beneath his cloak as he waits as patiently as he possibly can for the ship’s doors to slide open. When they do, the faces he sees are ones that he doesn’t know. He takes them in quickly and reads them as best as he’s able. A man with a staff—a Jedi? No. They’re all gone…all but one, who has been lost to time. His eyes are sharp, but empty. He can’t see. 

Luke steps forward to offer his hand, but finds that the assistance isn’t needed,as the man steps down easily onto the ground. When those gray eyes, peaceful but powerful like a storm far off in the distance, land on Luke, a hand, caked with dried mud, reaches out for him. Fingers slide along the prince’s cloak, leaving light brown smudges of dirt in their wake. 

“Fine material,” he says thoughtfully after a long pause, “You’re royalty.” His head gives a little nod, not quite a bow. Luke’s glad; he hates when people bow to him. “I'm Chirrut Îmwe, guardian of the Whills.” 

“It’s very nice to meet you. Welcome to”—

“There is nothing left of the Whills. He’s just trying to sound impressive.” The second face is weathered, bearded, and wreathed by long, dark hair streaked with white and gray. This man makes no move to touch Luke and instead stands there with a heavy blaster and grave eyes. “He does this _every time_ we meet someone important.” 

The first man, Chirrut, grins crookedly. “Please excuse Baze, your highness. He is not accustomed to dealing with royalty.” When Baze snorts, his grin widens further. “Would you trade that necklace  for a glimpse into your future?”

Base rolls his eyes. “He does that, too.” 

Luke’s fingers dip into the collar of his cloak. They slide down the short, silver chain before landing on a single clear crystal pendant. They wrap around it protectively. This crystal, simple as it may be, holds a lot of power. It holds a lot of memories too. Memories…they’re all he has left. 

( _“I’m sorry, your highness…but Commander Tano didn’t—she didn’t make it…”)_

When he smiles, it feels more like he’s grimacing. “I think I’ll hold onto this one, thank you…” He clears his throat. “Welcome to Yavin IV, gentlemen. If there’s anything you need during your stay, just let us know and we’ll accommodate you as best we can.” 

With a grin, Baze mutters, “A hot ‘fresher…that would be nice.” 

“I’m hungry,” calls a voice from behind them. It’s light, feminine—but steely and hard. A small woman who walks like a giant pushes past Îmwe and his associate. She, too, leaves a cloud of dust behind her as she moves. What’s left of the capital city of Jedha, Luke supposes with a pang of heartache. She wears no expression on her face. Perhaps it’s easier for her to lock her emotions back—or perhaps time has taken them away from her all together. She brushes Luke’s shoulder as she walks by and then pauses. She backtracks a few steps to take a closer look at him. Her eyes narrow and flicker towards his collar. “I’ve got a necklace like that too.” Her fingernails, stuffed underneath with mud, wrap around her own crystal, which hangs from a leather cord. “Kyber, right? The strongest stars have hearts of kyber, you know.” 

“Hey.” Chirrut wrinkles his nose. “That’s my line.” 

Luke reaches out to shake her hand, but she takes a step back like a threatened animal. He lowers it. “You must be Jyn Erso.” 

She straightens up her back and makes her eyes steel. Lifts her chin. Tries to make herself look taller than she is. She shrugs slightly. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you?” She doesn’t say it unkindly—in fact, she’s probably being as polite as she knows how. Luke’s read her file. A lifetime of fending for herself may have taken a toll on her social skills. She’s not the only one. 

She’s probably never felt welcome anywhere before. Luke smiles in an attempt to change that.

“I’m Luke Organa”— _of Alderaan, Senator of the Galactic Republic_. He’s made this same speech so many times that it comes as naturally as blinking. 

“Organa?” A third face appears. This one is smaller, with eager brown eyes, hair pulled back by a pair of flight goggles. The young man struggles to push his way to the front of their little crowd, glancing at Erso, Îmwe, and Baze as a nervous afterthought as if wondering if it was okay for him to do that. He stumbles a little before straightening himself out. “ _You’re_ Prince Organa?” Before Luke can even reply, the man’s shaky hands point to his chest. “I’m Bodhi—Bodhi Rook,” he explains eagerly, “I’m the pilot. The one who delivered the message…? I’m the pilot.” 

Luke grins as he takes in Rook’s weathered flight suit. “Indeed you are—and the Rebellion thanks for your service.” Rook preens a little and stands up tall. This group is definitely…a little rough around the edges, but that’s exactly what the Rebellion needs. “The Rebellion thanks all of you. I’m sure you were all very brave, and your efforts will be rewarded.” 

“The only reward _I_ want is to destroy that machine,” Baze announces, lifting his blaster to rest against his shoulder. 

“Thanks to all of you, it will be done,” Luke promises, “I’ll have someone bring you each to your rooms. I’m sure some warm food and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt. We might not have much, but what we have we have to share.” Cassian hardly eats, and he never sleeps. Says there’s no time. That there are things to do, places to be. The Empire doesn’t take breaks, he says, and neither should he. 

( _Luke awoke to the sound of Cassian zipping up his jacket. He lifted his head and dragged a sleepy hand through his hair. It was all fluffy now, mussed up by gentle but desperate hands. He found Cassian there, at the edge of the bed, bent over to lace up his boots. He couldn’t miss the way the muscles in his shoulders twitched as Luke’s fingertips slid through the hair at the nape of his neck._

_“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked softly. He wrapped the sheets around himself and shuffled closer. His head dropped forward against Cassian’s back, his cheek resting on the sleek fabric of his coat. The fur at the hood tickled his forehead. “Stay with me, just for a little longer.” He hated it when Cassian left like this; he never knew when (if) he was going to come back. Luke's arms curled around Cassian’s middle and he pressed close and anchored himself to him. Maybe he could hold him there by sheer love and power of will alone._

_Cassian didn’t turn his head—only bent his torso and extended his arms to pull on his second boot. “You know I can’t…” He sighed as Luke shifted and draped his soft, bare body over his back._

_“Please?” Luke kissed the spot under his ear. “I hate it when you leave.”_

_“Luke…” Cassian slid his hands along the prince’s arm before meshing their fingers. His tough skin, thickened from hard work and battle, rubbed against Luke’s soft palm. His chapped lips trailed over the prince’s knuckles. “I wanna stay, but I can’t.”_

_Luke knew that Cassian loved him, but he wondered if that was entirely true.)_

Heavy footfalls echo from the inside of the ship before a tall, dark figure folds itself to step from the hangar. Kay-Teu’s giant feet send dust floating upwards from the clay ground. His head dips low for a moment before bobbing back up. “Your highness,” he greets flatly, always the professional, “I knew that you would arrive to greet us.”

Luke steps forward and tries very hard to not look eagerly over the droid’s shoulder for the most familiar face of all. Instead, he focuses on Kay’s small, round head. His eyes still fight to glance behind. He lifts his head. “And here I am. Right again.” 

“Right again? Me?” Kay’s head drops again as he speaks. “How unexpected—my speciality is just strategic analysis.”

Some argue that droids can’t be funny; they pose the claim that because they’re not organic, that they cannot be sentient, and are therefore incapable of telling or understanding jokes. However,from Kay’s dry witticisms, to Threepio’s undignified squawks of displeasure, to the dirty jokes that Artoo and Chopper swap in binary when they think nobody can understand them, Luke’s found that droids are perhaps far more entertaining than people. He stares at Kay-Teu for a moment before erupting into a fit of giggles. The first laugh sounds something like a loud squeal, and coming from such a regal looking-person, it might surprise those who hadn’t yet heard it. From then on, it grows quieter and quieter until Luke has to hide his smile behind his hand, wheezing for breath. 

“It wasn’t as funny when you said it to me,” Jyn huffs, glancing up at Kay. She likes him more than she did before, and she’s sure she could learn, in time, to like Cassian too. Even if he _is_ a liar. She watches the prince struggle to gather his composure. She may not know much about royalty, but she’s pretty sure that they’re not supposed to act like _this_. She hears a clear, loud laugh, and another deep rumble of a chuckle. The boy has already managed to make Baze snicker—and Chirrut, well, he laughs at a great deal of things so entertaining him can’t be considered a major feat. 

Luke wipes the corner of his eye and looks up at Kay-Teu with a smile, reaching out and setting his hand flat against the droid’s cold, metal chest. “It’s good to see you, Kay.” _It’s good to see you in one piece_. 

Luke was only sixteen when Cassian, twenty three and not quite yet a captain, had reprogrammed Kay and paraded him about the base as proudly as he would allow himself to. Even then, Luke had found himself staring at his dark, soft hair (wondering, with longing, what it would be like to run his hands through it) and soulful eyes (wondering, with longing, what it would be like to have them focused on him, and only on him). He’d believed it, of course, to be nothing but a little crush, but as the years had passed, Luke had found himself falling deeply, deeply in love with him. It wasn’t until he was eighteen that Cassian had even considered loving him back.

“It’s good to see you also, your highness.” Kay’s small, round head jerks towards the hangar. “Cassian will think so too. I know he will.” He takes a long step forward. “You should go say hello to him. I think that is a good idea, and so does everyone else.” 

Quiet agreement rises from the little crowd of ragtag refugees that Luke can only assume that his Cassian has more or less kidnapped. _Aggressive recruitment_ , he calls it.

Luke can’t help but smile. “Yes, I’d like Captain Andor to debrief me on the progress of the mission before the meeting”—

Erso snickers. “I’m sure he’d be honored to _debrief_ him,” she mutters from behind her hand to the others, who all try to stifle their laughter. Apparently, their little… _courtship_ has become a bit of a conversational topic, probably thanks to Kay-Teu’s big, metal mouth. After all, Cassian’s always been a little shy about such things. 

( _“If you’re gonna be free this evening, your highness…” Cassian stared at his feet and swallowed hard for a moment before those dark eyes glanced into Luke’s. They only stayed there a moment before flickering away. “I was wondering—if it would be a convenience to you, I wanna know—I_ ** _would like_** _to know if…”_

_Luke stepped a little closer and stared up at him patiently. Of all the imaginary scenarios he’d invented in his head about this (there was an embarrassing amount of them), none of them had included the possibility that perhaps Cassian, the fearless radical, might be_ **_nervous_ ** _. Luke’s cloak swished around his body. “Yes, Captain Andor?” Because Cassian wasn’t just some officer who specialized in eavesdropping and reprogramming tall Imperial droids. He was a_ **_captain_ ** _now._

_He’d grown up. They both had. Luke was no longer a spoiled little prince. He was an adult now, old enough to be a Senator, and a teacher, and, possibly,_ **_hopefully_ ** _, someone’s_ **_boyfriend_ ** _. He watched as Cassian swallowed hard and cleared his throat, trying to be as covert as he possibly could. And he was often_ **_very_ ** _good at being covert. But this time, he wore it all on his sleeve._

_“Would you maybe wanna…” Cassian’s eyes drifted to Luke’s lips and lingered there for a second. “Maybe we could…get something to eat? Together. Eat together.” He gritted his teeth. “What I wanna say is”—_

_Luke raised his hand and set a finger over Captain Andor’s lips. “I like holos,” he offered, ducking his head with a shy little smile, “And smoothies.” He lowered his hand and tucked it back into his cloak. “And I have some sweet oro bark hidden away in my quarters.” He spoke a little bashfully. He was an adult now, and apparently adults weren’t supposed to smuggle candy onto diplomatic missions._

_Cassian’s eyes grew wide. “I…really?” He straightened himself up and gave a little bow, as if suddenly remembering that he was in the presence of_ **_royalty_ ** _, and not just some childhood friend. “I mean, yes. Good. That’s good, your highness. We’ll…” He cleared his throat. “We shall eat food. And watch holos.”_

_“Yes, Captain.” Luke smiled so widely that his cheeks hurt.“Yes, we shall.”_ ) 

Luke tilts his head and smiles as regally as he can manage with so many butterflies in his stomach at Kay-Teu and the new rebels. “It was nice to meet all of you—and I shall see you all at the _debriefing_ tomorrow.” He walks onto the hangar; this isn’t the first time he’s stepped foot onto an Imperial vessel. Before the Alliance had been fully formed, and Alderaan still operated as rebels in secret, he’d ridden on many an Imperial ship, surrounded by Stormtroopers sworn to protect him. This ship, however, is different.

It’s empty, and quiet. No overlapping radio signals, no ‘troopers chattering back and forth to each other, no gossiping droids. Nothing. Just an empty hangar, a spot where Cassian has stashed his all-too familiar jacket, and a ladder, leading upstairs to the cockpit. Luke steps forward, brushing his cloak aside as he wraps his fingers around the first rung. He lifts his foot and begins to climb. As he takes each step, he imagines himself as a pilot, like Captain Antilles, or General Syndulla, climbing up into his own ship to soar off amongst the stars—not only to explore the vast expanses and rich cultures of open space, but to fight the good fight with the rest of them. 

Much to his father’s chagrin, Rebel pilots often paint Luke’s face on the noses of their ship—a gentle but commanding figure all in white, usually posing with one hand on his hip and holding a blaster in the other. They’re a lot more respectful than the other one’s he’s seen, of half-naked twi’lek girls with their legs up surrounded by the words **_GO GET ‘EM!_** , but every time Luke sees one, he blushes a little. 

And every time Luke asks when he’ll be able to fly through the stars, his father will point to his likeness on the side of an X-Wing, grinning, and tell him _“But you already are.”_

When Luke finally finishes climbing the ladder, he wipes off his hands on his trousers, frowning when dirt and grease comes off with them. Rebels, may the Force be with them, have one very simple strategy when it comes to cleaning and grooming: wipe your face with the least greasy rag you can find. And for all the work they do with their ships, keeping them pristine enough to eat off of (and yes, several have offered to allow Luke to enjoy a sandwich on top of their windshields), they hardly ever take any care of themselves. 

Luke turns the copilot chair quietly and sits down next to Cassian. He can see that he’s been wandering so deeply into his own vast, complicated mind that he hadn’t even heard Luke come in. Luke doesn’t know where he goes when he travels deep inside himself like this—maybe it’s to memories, or to dreams, or to regrets. He just knows that when Cassian’s been thinking, his hair pokes up around the front, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and his fist rests lightly against his nose and mouth. The more time he spends traveling through his thoughts, the more red and and raw his lips look from biting them. 

It looks like he’s been thinking for a very long time. 

Luke swivels in the chair to face him. “You didn’t come to say hello.” He reaches out to brush Cassian’s hand away from his face, “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.” It feels right to touch his skin again, even just for a moment. Like they’re two magnets, struggling towards each other, and the forces keeping them apart have simply vanished, and finally everything feels _whole_.

Cassian jumps a little at his touch, but then grins to himself and takes Luke’s hand in his, pulling it close and kissing his palm. His eyes, warm but weathered, meet Luke’s, and crinkle at the corners. “Me?” he asks, “Forget about you? Never. You wouldn’t let me.” Cassian’s smile makes Luke feel warm and dizzy in the best possible way. 

It’s hard to tell who moves first, but soon, they’re up and in each other’s arms, their chairs spinning behind them. Luke’s feet lift slightly as Cassian stumbles from the impact oftheir bodies colliding, spinning them both around as they catch their balance. Cassian’s arms tighten around Luke’s middle, his hands splaying over his back, and Luke buries his face into Cassian’s neck as he grips at his shoulders. For a moment, neither of them say anything. They don’t need to; they’ve reached a point of understanding each other where words are no longer needed. All they need is touch—atouch that both of them soak in as much as they can, desperate, treating each brush of skin as the last. Every push of Cassian’s chest against Luke’s as they breathe is a reminder that this is something tangible.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” Luke whispers, lifting his head. His hands slide to Cassian’s forearms and he holds fast onto him. “There was Jedha, and then that attack on Eadu—and they couldn’t _find_ you, and…I thought…” 

“Hey.” Cassian’s hands, warm and rough, slide over Luke’s soft cheek. He rubs his thumb over his skin gently. His hands have done a great number of harsh, not beautiful things. He’s handled bombs, and blasters, and sniper rifles. He’s killed so many people that it’s a miracle that he can keep track of them. But having Luke’s face, his hair, his body, underneath his fingers teaches him again how to be nice—how to be gentle. Luke turns his head, ashamed of his sudden, fearful outburst, and Cassian cups the other side of his face in his free hand. “Look at me.” Luke does, and he’s so blindingly handsome that Cassian wants to tuck him away in a bunker somewhere, under countless locks so that the Empire can never sully his beauty and his kindness. “I’ll _always_ come back for you, yeah? Always.”

Nothing is ever certain, especially not in times a spectacularly _uncertain_ as these. Nothing can be assured, and nothing can be promised. Cassian knows this, perhaps better than many other people across the galaxy, but he can hope. He _must_ hope. He can’t _not_ hope, because rebellions are built from just that—and _just that_ is standing in his arms, soft and warm and _real_.

“You’d better promise that.”Luke pushes himself back into Cassian’s arms and clings to him tightly.” His fingers slide through the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck before resting on his shoulders. 

He might be about as Force-blind as a rock, but Cassian swears that he can feel Luke’s heart beating in time with his. 

He gathers Luke close and feels the way their bodies align. Luke likes to say that their souls can recognize each other, even across the far reaches of space; he says that they’re made from thesame stuff, of dust from the same star, and all the time, they’ve been drifting closer and closer again. And as Cassian cradles Luke close, he knows what it’s like to shine. His fingers slide under Luke’s cloak to touch his back. He rolls his eyes a little bit as Luke grins eagerly at him. 

“Go on,” the boy urges, rubbing his thumb over Cassian’s pulse as if to remind himself that it’s still there, and that it will always be there, “Promise me.” 

Cassian’s head drops and his feet glance at the harsh, metal ground. Harsh. All he has seen these past few days are harsh things; rough, grainy sand and sharp, wet rocks. The way the ground overturned on Jedha and swallowed up the horizon. The way the rain pelted against his body on the slippery the cliffs of Eadu. The way that blaster had felt in his hand, the way his finger paused on the trigger. _He hates it when I kill, but still he holds my killer’s hands, and kisses my killer’s face._ The way the Rebel ships sliced through the sky as they dropped bombs onto the hangar. The way the shrapnel and flames exploded into the rain, the way the smoke lifted towards the clouds.

Soft cheeks lift as the prince’s lips part to smile. This time, it’s easy to tell that Luke moves first, pushing himself up onto his toes to kiss his captain. 

Cassian reminds himself, as he kisses Luke, that hope is something that must be handled gently, with only the most loving of touches. It’s more valuable than any crystal, any gold, any kingdom. There’s no price that can be placed upon hope, and there’s no price that can be placed upon love; all one can do is be glad that they have it, and fight to keep it. 

Kissing Luke doesn’t feel like anything else he’s ever known. It’s like coming back after a long, successful mission, knowing he did the right thing; it’s like setting his pack down and shrugging off his coat, toeing out of his shoes, and climbing into bed. It’s like coming home to something that he knows will always be there. 

It’s the closest thing that Cassian Andor has ever felt to safety. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "dramatic irony is a cruel occurrence, one that is almost always upsetting.” -lemony snicket 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶ hello again and welcome back!! i'm so sorry for taking so long (｡•́︿•̀｡) school has been wild, but i'm planning on having more scheduled writing time once finals are over so i can submit chapters more regularly!! 
> 
> this chapter was originally supposed to contain more, but i decided to post it now, because i feel like one more little vignette about luke and cassian was necessary before i finish the first major part of this fic!! this one is a little shorter, but it's just a cute little snippet before shit gets real. i promise that darksider!leia IS coming soon, and inevitably, so is han. so if you're here for the skysolo, just hold out a little bit longer!!! it's on its way!! 
> 
> like i said, as more trigger warnings arise, i'll include them here, and then give context (AKA spoilers) at the end of the fic, so you can look and see if it's something that you're comfortable reading. i'll try to number the paragraphs, or at least give a general area where the warning is so you can skip over it. 
> 
> this chapter is pretty fluffy, so there aren't really many warnings. death and food (because diego said that cassian can cook and i just couldn't resist) are mentioned throughout. and a trans person having a baby is implied and talked about, but not present!! as a trans boi, writing about babies and having a family is a major dysphoria-buster for me, and later on in the story it'll become a bigger theme, but i understand if it's not something that you're comfortable with! i'll always give warnings about it. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy this last little bit of fluff before shit gets real!! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

_0 BBY. Yavin IV._

 

That night, Luke Organa dreamsof the future through a kaleidoscope. 

 A vision is much like watching something that _could_ happen—but might not happen— through a frosted and cracked window pane. At least, this was what he had been told by his auntie when she knelt beside him on the balcony that overlooked the snow-capped mountains, her weapons clipped to her belt and her clay-colored hands resting in her lap. She was always so still when she straightened her back and closed her eyes like that—not even the wind could touch her. She was like a statue. 

 With a stab of heartbreak, he remembers that not even a statue is invincible. 

He never sees her in his dreams, and sometimes the hollowness in his mind where his connection to her used to be keeps him up at night and gnaws at his brain. 

Tonight, however, he’s fucked out and boneless: tucked up against Cassian’s chest, his head rising and falling as his captain breathes, their bodies glistening with sweat. It smells like burlap, silk, and the heady, musky, _obvious_ scent of sex. He’s never been more perfectly content in his entire life. His body slowly shuts down but his mind seems to brighten, opening itself to the Force and all it has to show him. 

But visions are far more than sight and sound—they’re _sensation._

 

The sensation of meeting a child that he hasn’t had yet—the flutters shivering through his body, the tremors in his fingers, the loosening of his fist. The tears as they roll, hot and blurry, down his cheeks. The warm, heavy weight on his chest that wiggles and squirms. The touch of soft, pink skin and dark, downy hair against his fingertips. The swell of his heart and the laughter in his chest. The stubbled chin and chapped lips against his cheek. The ringing in his ears as the infant in his arms raises their fists and lets out the sharpest, sweetest shriek. 

He sees them through shattered glass and layers of fog and hears them like they’re far away, but every feeling is _so close_ , like they've all somehow moved a layer deeper than his skin and made a home right within the very core of him. With them comes a strong, unabashed happiness that clings to his insides and won’t let go, even as he awakes to find himself alone. 

He blinks into the darkness. Cassian’s quarters are much like a small, steel box with a refresher and a kitchenette. Nobody spends enough time here to bother decorating. Luke swims through the sheets and climbs out of bed. With a soft hiss, he lays his feet against the cold, metal floor. Cassian doesn’t _do_ rugs. He doesn’t do _comfort_. These quarters aren’t a home—they’re just a place for him to rest his head and hang up his jacket before he goes flying off into another reckless mission for the Rebellion.   

But Luke, with a newfound certainty, knows that Cassian will have a home someday—that the two of them, and their child, will have a home together. Cassian Andor will have to learn to _do_ comfort. And rugs. There will have to be rugs. Luke will settle for nothing less. He yawns and stretches his arms as he steps into the cramped little kitchenette. 

Like the rest of Cassian’s quarters, the kitchen lacks any sort of ornamentation, aside from a sack of fresh groceries sitting on the counter. What it lacks in decorum, however, it makes up for with _sensation_. The lights glow, as opposed to glaring from above; they make the whole room feel warm and welcoming. The grease bubbles and pops in the pan as Cassian stands above it and cooks, occasionally dashing in a pinch of this or a sprinkle of that. 

His shoulders curve forward as he works, nothing like the posture of a stiff officer that he shrugs on during missions and briefings. Here, Cassian is truly in his element. He grins as Luke steps forward and wraps his arms around his waist. 

“Hey.” His fingers are gentle and warm as they slide down Luke’s arms before resting on his hands. “How’d you sleep?” 

Luke leans his head forward against Cassian’s shoulder. He smiles against the thin fabric of his nightshirt. “I slept better than I have in ages.” His smile grows so wide that his eyes squint and crinkle at the corners. A vibration of excitement shivers through his body. 

Cassian turns in his arms and grasps his hands again. He holds them close to his face and rubs his thumbs over Luke’s palms. Luke has soft hands. A prince’s hands. Cassian’s stubble brushes over Luke’s peachy skin, still tingling from sleep, as he kisses his knuckles. “You’re trembling…” His eyebrows slant towards each other and his eyes search Luke’s for an answer. He’s good at finding the answers to things—it’s his job, after all. He reads people. But there’s something about Luke that just boggles his mind. “You okay?” 

Luke slides one hand out of Cassian’s and rests it on his shoulder. His fingers drift up into his soft, dark hair. He plays with it for a moment, biting down on his lip. Softly, his hand slips over onto Cassian’s cheek; he rubs his thumb against his stubble. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say—so many words fly through his head, but he can’t seem to catch any and hold onto them long enough to speak. “Something wonderful has happened,” he whispers finally. His voice struggles to keep in an even place. 

“Yeah?” Cassian turns his head and kisses Luke’s thumb. “You wanna tell me?” he asks, pretending that Luke is actually capable of keeping secrets from him, “I could use some good news right now.” The galaxy, although it's a little safer without Galen Erso in it, is still embroiled in danger and ensnared in the dark fist of the Empire. Most of the news he gets isn’t good. _Another informant has been killed. Another refugee camp has been destroyed. Another investigation has reached a dead end. The Empire has built another super-weapon._ He’s the sort of person who crosses his fingers and _hopes_ that the news is good, even though it seldom ever is; he’ll hope, and hope, and hope until the stars burn out, because hope is all he has. Hope is everything—it’s Luke, it’s the Rebellion, it’s what keeps him alive and coming back to the both of them. 

 Everything about Luke is twinned: like two opposite images, inverted in a mirror. He is two people all at once, with two faces, and two voices, two smiles, and two ways of moving. The prince and the boy are separated by a thin, blurry line; the way his mouth curves and cradles its syllables when he speaks to the council differs from the way it throws and catches them when any formal airs have fallen away. Now, as his eyes shine earnestly and his hands quiver with excitement, Cassian sees the carefree, enthusiastic youth that has been deemed unfit for meetings with the Senate and other diplomats. He sees the person that Luke becomes when he drops his cloak (which still sits with his tunic, trousers, and shoes on Cassian’s bedroom floor). He sees the bright light in the galaxy that shines like adistant, constant star that always guides him back _home_. 

Home. Cassian has a bit of a preoccupation with the concept, probably due to the fact that he’s never really had one. He’s had plenty of roofs over his head in the past, but they’ve always been just that: roofs. Places and things. Just sparse furniture and a pack’s full of possessions. There’s never been anything _sentimental_. Material comforts are essential to survival, but all his life they’ve failed to give him any sensation of belonging. Luke brings a new energy to these quarters. Without him, they’re nothing but a collection of _things_. A place to hang his jacket. A pillow upon which he can rest his head on the rare occasion that he tries to sleep. A kitchen to cook in. A ‘fresherto clean himself in. Chairs for him to sit in. Lights to illuminate the way. 

But with Luke, everything changes. The bed becomes warmer and softer. It becomes easer to allow himself to sleep. The lights glow more gently. Home, he realized long ago, isn’t a place. Because this place now, where he lives, can remain unchanged but _feel_ like either a place to belong or a place to survive. A home is made not of the bed, or of the kitchen, or of the ‘fresher. A home is that easy, almost lazy feeling of adoration that rolls through his chest at this very moment, as he leans against the counter and holds Luke’s hips in his hands. He and Luke be standing here, or in the ruins of Jedha, or in an imperial prison on Wobani, and the feeling would remain the same not because of where they are, but because of who they’re _with_. 

And now, something wonderful has happened. _Yeah,_ Cassian thinks, _no kidding_. 

Luke’s blue eyes are alight with something that’s one doesn’t have to be a Rebel intelligence officer to read: happiness. He practically glows gold and green and blue and silver with it, and every beautiful color seems to rise up from his skin. His teeth sink into his lip the way he often does when he’s trying to keep that rainbow inside him locked away under a snowy cloak of Alderaanian regality. When Cassian brushes his thumb over the dimple in his chin, however, Luke’s cheeks flush and he smiles fully. 

Contrary to popular belief, there are such things as ugly smiles. Cassian has seen them on the faces of Imperial senators, directors, and admirals—twisted, horrible things that show rows of teeth that ought to be long and pointed, but are often smooth and blunt just like his. They should look like monsters when they smile, with fangs and forked tongues and black gums, but instead they look like any other person. They look just like _him._ Perhaps that’s what makes him hate them the most: once they finished slaughtering the innocent people of Jedha’s holy city from afar, the people on that space station, that _Death Star_ , probably smiled their ordinary human smiles, shook hands with each other, and returned back to their posts as if innumerable lives hadn’t just been snuffed out. They might as well have just licked their fingers and put out thousands of candles all at once. Maybe they even returned home to their families. Maybe they have partners to kiss, and children to hold to their hips. Maybe even they can experience things like _love_. _Maybe_ Cassian is more like them than he is different.   

After all, he too will kill and return home to a partner to kiss. 

He did as much yesterday.  

When Luke smiles, however, it isn’t a gnarled grimace or a haughty smirk, no—nothing about him could ever be ugly. Every inch of him is soft kindness and quiet strength, tasting of salt and jasmine and vanilla. 

Perhaps Luke only looks so beautiful because he’s so in love. 

Perhaps Luke only looks so beautiful because Cassian is so in love with him. 

 Perhaps love has blinded them both. 

 Luke ducks his head and his gaze slides along the pink ring of his lower eyelids before he raises them and laughs. He doesn’t laugh in that uproarious, unrestrained sort of way he does when something’s so funny that he can’t hold it back; nor does he wheeze and giggle in the way he does during meetings when he hears his R2 unit and General Syndulla’s C1 beeping and chirping innuendos back and forth and is trying not to laugh because such things are not becoming of a prince and senator. No, this laugh is nothing like those. It’s a small, low sort of sound that widens his full, beautiful smile even further.  

“Cassian…” Luke pulls in a deep breath and holds it, waiting for the right moment to share the _something wonderful_ that has happened. Cassian holds his breath too. “I need to tell you…” He pushes himself onto his toes and rests his hand on Cassian’s lower back. His lips are soft against his temple and his breath tickles his ear. “Your eggs are burning.” 

 Cassian stares at him blankly for a moment, as if absorbing Luke’s planet-shaking news. Then, his eyes widen just slightly and he twitches to attention. “What?” 

Luke chuckles again and turns Cassian by his hips to face the small stove. “Your eggs. They’re burning.” 

“Blast!” Cassian grabs his spatula and shakes theskillet a little, trying to blow away the smoke as it rises from what was supposed to be a surprise breakfast in bed. He loads the eggs onto a plate and inspects them with all the thoroughness and attention to detail he would an official file.  

Standing on tiptoe, Luke peeks at the plate over his shoulder. “They look fine to me,” he assures him, “And I know you’re a great cook.” The Rebellion doesn’t reward Cassian with much free time, but when it does, he can be found here, squeezed between the counter and the stove, tossing ingredients together and seeing what fits. The food he makes is tangy and soulful, with just a little something that leaves hot sparks on Luke’s tongue. His heart and stomach alike do a double backflip when he thinks about Cassian cooking for their _child_ , holding them against his side and letting them drop little handfuls of seasonings into a pot of stew. A warm feeling rises up from his belly and into his smile, and he covers his mouth with an elegant fist and leans against the counter. 

 Cassian’s shoulders droop as he slides the skillet into the sink. “It couldn’t be saved,” he confesses, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. Just like Jehda, it couldn’t be saved. But he’s not moping about it, or anything. 

“You’re moping…” Luke steps into his space and orbits him for a moment before setting his hands on Cassian’s hips and looking up at him with sympathy, love, and a little bit of amusement. “It’s my fault, I taunted you with good news and distracted you.” He tilts his head up and kisses Cassian’s frown until it slowly slides into a smile. “Forgive me?” 

Grinning, Cassian pretends to consider his offer. “I bought some sweet rolls from the market off-base—the ones you like.” He sees Luke’s eyes hook onto his words at _sweet_. For a royal brat with a supposedly refined palette, Luke gravitates not towards the pricy, well-garnished meals served to him in the palace; instead, he drifts towards the markets—specifically towards the patisseries. Princes, generals, and dignitaries from across the galaxy could offer him any number of fine wines, but each will make him wrinkle up his nose and kindly request a smoothie or a hot chocolate (his vice of choice, and an expensive one at that). “You want those?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.   

Kissing Cassian’s chin, Luke steps back to give him space before hopping up onto the counter. He swings his legs a little, watching as Cassian heads to the sack of groceries and pulls out a small flimsiplast pouch. As soon as he sets it on the counter, Luke buries his hand into it and pulls out a brown roll, adorned with a crunchy white topping and grooves across the center to resemble a shell. 

 When Cassian collapses to his knees in the coarse sand of Scarif’s shores, he will feel a shell somewhere underneath his palm—feel its fragile shape and deep, long grooves—and he will remember this moment just as he sees it now. The roll will feel dry and crisp on the top, and gooey and soft on the bottom. Luke will shine, luminous and proud, and smile as he takes that first bite. The cinnamon topping will crackle under his teeth, and his hand will slowly tear the rest of the roll away. Cassian will remember the hard, cold feeling of the counter against his lower back, but the warmth of Luke’s hand on his shoulder. He will remember Luke leaning against him, sighing contentedly, and mumbling—

“We’re going to have a baby.” 

 Cassian has only picked up his roll, and yet somehow he already feels like he’s already choking on it. “ _What?”_ he splutters, clearing his throat, “Now?” 

Luke laughs and gives Cassian’s back a comforting pat. “No, not now,” he promises. His cheeks flush and he bites his lip. “Well, at least I don’t _think_ now…” He gives a little shrug and his smile drops a little. This was a bad idea. They’ve never even talked about it! How how does he know that Cassian even _wants_ children with him—or to settle down with him at all? Maybe Cassian’s life will always be in the Rebellion. Cassian stands there for a long moment, and every second that passes makes Luke feel worse and worse, makes him withdraw into himself more and more, shrinking away further and further until he’s a sliver of nothing. Silence can be comfortable and intimate, but not like this. Right now, all Luke can feel is fear. 

Then, there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder. Cassian usually moves with purpose—every move is carefully planned, laid down like stepping stones to the end goal. There’s no such thing as a meaningless touch; Luke has known Cassian long enough to be sure that this isn’t a frivolous action. It has a meaning, and a purpose, and a plan. When he lifts his head, he notices that Cassian’s face has brightened, as opposed to drained, like he was expecting. Through the dark cloud of his own uncertainty, Luke had neglected to notice the pink bubbles of happiness floating from Cassian’s body and into the Force. Even though he can’t hide his emotions from the Force, he still lays that plan in place and follows it. He’s doing _reconnaissance_ ; he’s assembling data assessing it, coming to a conclusion, and organizing a response. He’s weighing the pros and cons and calculating the risks. It’s the only way he knows how to react, aside from jumping in feet first.

Luke wishes that Cassian would just dive into this with him and be recklessly happy. 

 Cassian licks his lip. “Okay…so we’re gonna…” He averts his eyes and clears his throat. “We’re gonna have a kid. Did you…” His hand turns in a speechless gesture and he takes a moment to gather his words in a nice, even line. “You know…” 

Luke takes that hand and holds it gently, rubbing his thumbs over Cassian’s palm. “I had a vision.” He stares at all the lines in Cassian’s palms and wonder what they mean. His Auntie liked to say that you could tell a lot about a person from their hands; that if he looked close enough, he could see an entire story laid out for him to read. She had strong, elegant hands with long fingers and rough spots circling her fingertips from years of holding her weapons. But she always handled him so gently, with such care. Luke’s heart aches at the thought of her. Luke’s fingertips trace along the wide curve around Cassian’s thumb. “I don’t know when it’s going to happen, but I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He suddenly feels a little too exposed and fidgets on the counter. 

Cassian’s free hand settles on his waist and finally, after several moments of analysis and planning, Cassian smiles—not the tight line of his lips when he’s pretending or feels uncomfortable. It’s the earnest smile that brightens his entire face and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It’s a rare sight, since being in this fight since you were _six years old_ doesn’t teach you how to smile. But whenever Luke sees it, it fills him up with bubbles. “Okay,” Cassian says again, this time with a little bit of a spring to it. 

Luke’s eyes shoot up from Cassian’s hand. “Okay?” he asks hopefully. 

 The odds may be slim for thetwo of them, but they have nothing if not hope. 

 Cassian drops his other hand to Luke’s hip and pulls him forward. He steps between his legs as his fingers slide lower, tapping along Luke’s bare thighs. He drops his head and hovers above Luke’s lips. “Okay.” This time, he doesn’t wait for Luke to lift his face and bridge the gap between them. He doesn’t bother calculating the risk. He just dives in, and is recklessly happy. 

Luke’s arms wrap around his neck, fingers drifting through his hair and pulling him closer. Cassian’s chest presses to his, and Luke wonders if his heart is pounding as quickly as his own, if he’s experiencing the same flutters of excitement in his tummy. His brain shorts out a little as they kiss.

 When Cassian pulls back, he stays in Luke’s orbit, hovering around him. Luke hovers in his orbit too, and the two of them circle around each other and smile.

“Are you happy?” Luke asks, bobbing in for another kiss. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but there’s no harm in checking. Cassian rarely says what’s on his mind, and often keeps all his feelings locked away. If he has any doubts, he’ll try to hide them. Luke’s hands slide down Cassian’s chest. “I know it’s not…I know it’s unexpected, and I know the Rebellion should be our first priority”— 

 Now it’s Cassian’s turn to take Luke’s hands. He holds them close and kisses them. “I’m happy,” he promises quickly, trying his best to brush any worries Luke still has away. He makes his voice firm and solid, with no holes for Luke to see into and worry about what’s on the other side. “ _I’m happy_.” Yes, of course this is unexpected, and yes, Cassian’s life has always been with the Rebellion. But that’s because there’s so much he has to do (hopefully not for much longer; the Empire should fall swiftly once he gets those plans from Scarif), and because he’s never had a life anywhere else. He can’t leave the Rebellion behind, and he knows that Luke can’t either. But maybe that won’t stop them from having a life together. Luke _is_ the Rebellion—a life with him would be a life for the cause. He never thought he could possibly be any more dedicated to destroying to destroying the Empire, but now he’s found himself burning with a newfound strength and determination. 

_Save the Rebellion._  

_Save the dream._  

His grip around Luke’s hands tightens only slightly and he smiles. Luke smiles too, and the two of them stand there and smile at each other for what feels like the best possible eternity. 

Cassian finally breathes out a laugh and ducks his head. “I…I dunno what to say,” he admits. This is a first; Cassian always knows what to say because he plans out every word with the utmost care and discretion, and when he doesn’t know what to say, he simply stands in the back with his arms crossed and watches the rest of the galaxy with a keen eye. He’s not the sort to be rendered speechless—instead, he just bides his time and plans what he’s going to say next. 

 “Just…” Luke rubs his thumb over Cassian’s knuckles. “Say what’s on your mind.” He slides their joined hands down over his hips; he doesn’t dare to drift them towards his center just yet, not that there’s probably anyone there. If there was, he’d be able to feel them, he’s sure of that. He wonders if, when they _are_ there, he’ll be able to focus in on the Force just like he was taught, and hone his entire being just on them; he wonders if he’ll be able to feel all their cells dividing inside his body, one by one.

Cassian, however, always bold and daring, takes no time in sliding his hand over Luke’s warm belly. It’s soft and squishy to the touch, but with hard muscle underneath. He can’t wrap his head around the idea of it growing. The tears he blinks back makes the whole kitchen blurry, like he’s rocketing through hyperspace. “What’ll they be like…?” Will they look like him, with his shock of black hair and brown eyes? Will they have Luke’s chin? His smile? His sweet little button nose? Will he laugh like Luke does when they’re alone together, loud and carefree? Will they be smart? Will they be kind? Will they…will they _love_ him? Even after they know what he’s done?  

Luke’s fingers walk up Cassian’s chest before they land softly against his cheek and spread out there. “They’re going to be so beautiful,” he whispers, his lips shaking around his words, “And they’re going to love you, and we’re going to teach them so much…We’ll teach them to walk, and talk, and read”—His heart aches in the most delicious way as he thinks about the inevitability of Cassian crouched down on the floor, arms out, grinning with every part of him as their chubby, clumsy little toddler waddles his way. It fills him up with a warm, bubbly feeling, because he knows that it’s _true_. It’ll _happen._ He just has to wait for it. “I’ll teach them how to play the harp, and write poetry, and”—

“I’ll teach them how to fire a blaster,” Cassian mumbles. His voice goes quiet, and a little bit sour. “And how to throw a grenade, and how to set up a sniper rifle”—His hand lifts from Luke’s belly. His _killer’s_ hand, the one he uses to pull the trigger. The one he couldn’t use to kill Galen Erso. (But he died anyway, and if Jyn says it’s his fault, that he still killed her father, then he still followed his orders and accomplished his mission. Hooray.) 

Luke, observant and quick witted, catches the sudden shift in Cassian’s mood. How could he not? It settles over the both of them like the black storm clouds back home that always bring blizzards, or the ones here that always bring rain. He reaches for Cassian’s wrist and stares at his eyes, follows them when he tries to look away. “No…” He pulls Cassian’s arm closer. His fingertips brush over Cassian’s knuckles and push them down until his palm flattens out against his belly again. “You’ll teach them how to cook, and how to sing—and I guess we’ll both teach them how to dance…” Luke rubs over the top of Cassian’s hand. “You’re a good man, Cassian—and you’ll be a good father too.” 

 Cassian’s brow furrows and he narrows his eyes. His mouth flattens into a long line. Luke realizes, with a pang of heartache, that Cassian is looking at him like he’s interrogating him—like he’s looking for the lie. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Luke asks with a little sigh. 

“Like what?”  

“Like…” He waves his hand vaguely as he flips through his brain for the correct words. “Like you’re waiting for my eye to twitch.” _Like you don’t trust me_. He knows that Cassian doesn’t trust anyone; it’s nothing personal, Luke knows that too. It’s merely the product of fighting every day to survive after being abandoned at a young age. But that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt. His eyebrows pull together sadly. “I love you,” he vows seriously, reaching for Cassian’s cheek with his spare hand, “ _We_ love you, even if there’s not a we yet.” 

Cassian leans into his hand. “Same here.” It’s one of the few promises he can make in this mess of a galaxy. He can’t promise that he’ll get through the mission without killing, and he can’t promise that he’ll get through the mission at all; what he _can_ promise is that he loves Luke, with all the parts of him that are capable of love (though there might not be that many left). “And I’m happy about this.” He drops his head and presses his lips to the little dimple in Luke’s chin. “I just look like a grouchy wampa sometimes.” 

 Luke snorts and shakes is head with a wide, open smile. “No, not a wampa…more like a Loth cat.” He gives Cassian’s hair a ruffle. “Nice and fluffy.” He tosses his head back with a laugh as Cassian tries to dodge his touch. “You want a scratch behind the ears?” he teases as he massages Cassian’s scalp with his fingertips. It’s difficult for him to narrow down all of Cassian’s perfect characteristics and pick a favorite, but if he were to try, he’s sure he’d put his hair up towards the top of the list. Rebels don’t always have time to shower, always running from one place to the next, but Cassian’s hair is always clean and soft. He likes touching it, and Cassian seems to like _having_ it touched. He pictures their baby sitting in Cassian’s arms, patting his hair and the scruff on his cheeks and chin with their fat little hands and it warms him from head to toe. 

 What warms him even more is the inevitability of it—the security in knowing that it’s _going_ to happen, even if he doesn’t know when. He and Cassian are going to be together and survive this mess of a war, and they’re going to have a _child_. He doesn’t have to spend his time on base waiting by the landing pad, his stomach in knots because Cassian _might not come back._ He can sleep easier, knowing that soon, he won’t have to sleep alone ever again. 

Cassian leans into Luke’s touch; he’s never really been the sort to seek out a comforting touch, but on the rare occasions that it’s offered to him, he soaks it up like a sponge and holds it all inside him, like someday Luke will wise up and see that he doesn’t deserve his kindness and then try to take it all away.  

“I love you,” Luke says again, quietly and reverently—and so damn honestly that Cassian forgets that there are even liars in the galaxy. It’s like for one golden, glorious moment, everyone is as good as Luke, and there is no evil. “I love you, and I _want_ this with you—if you want it too”—  

“I want it,” Cassian says, maybe a little too quickly, too eagerly. All his life, he has always craved something that he could not name—maybe he’s never bothered to name it, because all this time he’s thought that he couldn’t have it. But now, it stands here before him, eyes wide and cheeks dusted pink. Now, it has a name that tastes so sweet on his lips. “I, uh…love you too.” Those words have always laid down stumbling blocks at his feet, and he’s always tripped over them and fallen flat on his face, but the way Luke smiles every tim he says them makes him pull himself back up and brush the dust from his knees. 

Luke’s lips curve in that perfect, shy, almost _smug_ little way, and he gently uses the hand in Cassian’s hair to guide him closer for a kiss. It’s a kiss that Cassian can feel secure in, knowing that there’s no way that it could be the last. There’s a lifetime of kisses to come, and he can finally allow himself to be lazy and enjoy it, knowing that he won’t have to sink his nails into this one because there won’t be any more. 

Soon, there will be a time when Cassian will be able to kiss Luke every day, and kiss his child too—kiss their chubby little cheeks, and their fat hands, and their tiny feet and tickle their belly with the scruff on his cheeks. He doesn’t know _how_ to be nurturing, and there isn’t really a briefing that comes before becoming a parent (maybe there is, not that he would really know), but maybe if he looks at it like a mission presented to him without context, he’ll be able to figure it out.  

It’ll be a mission like no other that he’s ever had, and one that could be just as imperative and perilous. 

The durasteel door slides open with a whoosh and heavy footsteps thump flatly through the room.

“I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I?” Kay asks dryly, bobbing his head as he enters the kitchen. Something akin to a sigh rattles his circuits as Cassian immediately moves away from Luke to straighten his back and smooth out his nightshirt. “Oh, don’t bother; I’m already here.” 

Cassian tries several times to fold himself against the counter in several casual positions, and fails. “Hey, Kay.” He picks up his sweet roll and shoves it into his mouth. He can’t even savor the gooey, slightly spicy taste of it, or the crunch of the shell beneath his teeth because he’s too busy trying not to choke, and trying not to keep himself from talking. As an intelligence officer, Cassian is often very good at keeping secrets, but when it comes to his droid, he always cracks his mind wide open and spills it all over his big, metal feet.  

Luke takes another bite of his roll too, and catches the cinnamon crust before dropping that into his mouth too. They’ve had many mornings like this; him sitting around in Cassian’s shirts, Kay making it clear that he knows _exactly_ what they did the night before, and Cassian uncharacteristically struggling to keep both his secrets and his composure. He wishes, absently, that every morning could be this way. “Good morning, Kay,” he greets with a dimpled smile.

Kay’s glowing eyes click as they snap over to Luke. Some may find a droid’s stare to be frightening and cold, and they might feel chilly, or pinned down beneath their synthetic gazes. Luke, personally, can’t relate; he can connect with a droid just as easily as he can with any person or animal. “Good morning, your highness. I was expecting to see you here.” _I’m glad to see you here_ , he expresses without saying. His head turns on his neck to look at his companion, his maker, who’s once again found himself occupied with holding his fist to his mouth. It’s his way of buttoning his lips shut so he doesn’t say anything _rash_ or _stupid_. Kay bobs along across the kitchen. “Good morning, Cassian. I assume the _debriefing_ went well.” 

 Cassian has never been so mortified in his entire life, and he literally just stared certain death straight in the eyes and flew through a a shattered horizon. 

Luke, on the other hand, just doubles over and covers his mouth as he laughs. He laughs even _harder_ when Cassian gives him a horrified look. Once Luke catches his breath, he tilts his head down and gives Cassian a kiss on his stubbled jaw. “Speaking of _debriefing_ —I should head back to my own quarters before anyone assumes that I spent the night getting thoroughly _debriefed_ by the Rebellion’s best intelligence officer.” Cassian opens his mouth, probably to say that he’s _not the best_ , but Luke kisses him there too to shut him up. “I’ll see you at the meeting?”

“Yeah,” Cassian mumbles, lowering his head as he watches Luke head to the bedroom to gather his clothes. “See you.” 

 Kay at least has the decency to wait until Luke has vanished into the morning light to turn towards Cassian. “You didn’t ask him, did you?” He follows Cassian around the kitchen with heavy footfalls. “I knew you wouldn’t, but I wish you would.” 

“Kay?” Cassian asks as he begins packing up the remaining sweet rolls.  

“Yes, Cassian?” 

“Shut up,” he says, smiling. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally!! i'm back with another chapter!! i'm so sorry it's taken me so long--i'm going to try to be much better about having a routine, since school has started!! i just want to thank everyone for reading the past chapters, and i hope what's to come meets your expectations! we're finally, FINALLY getting towards the plot and some new characters! unfortunately, that means that we're going to have to say goodbye to a few too :'( 
> 
> as always, thank you endlessly for your support, and please let me know what you think! ♡

 

_0 BBY,Yavin IV._

 

Over time, meetings among the Rebels has become much like meetings between the Senators of the dead and defunct Republic--mere echo chambers for some of the biggest egos in the Galaxy.

“Fight? How are we supposed to fight?” 

“And with what army?”  

“I'm not wasting my troops on a wild bantha chase towards certain death based on the words of a war criminal!” 

“Not to mention that Saw Gererra was an extremist! He was an anarchist at best, and a terrorist at worst! He was never anything but trouble for us!”  

“Jedha wasn't even a part of the Alliance! What does it matter to us if they're destroyed! Better them than us, and that's all I have to say about it!” 

Bail keeps his chin up and his hands behind his back as he tries to filter out all the layered voices and pick out something that’s actually _important_. Instead, he finds that nobody actually has anything of value to say, and that everyone’s merely raising their voices so they can sound the most important. Decades of serving in one Senate or another has taught him patience; it’s taught him to wait until the time is right for him to speak, and to carefully plan each word in advance so that they’ll have the desired effect. He’s learned to make each word _important_ , something that many in both the old and the new Senates have failed to learn. 

 He feels his son’s entire body tense up next to him. Luke has learned to make each word _important,_ sure, but--

 “Excuse me, counselor”--

 It’s the _waiting until the time is right_ part that he can’t seem to grasp. 

 Luke furrows his eyebrows as several voices continue laying over his own. “Excuse me”--Each time he gets out even a syllable, someone else raises their voice even more-- “Excuse”--With a frustrated sigh, Luke glances to his father. He doesn’t know how he can be so _patient,_ just standing there and clenching his jaw, and listening to all this elitist bantha fodder! Luke tries, and tries, and _tries_ to be calm, and usually he succeeds; but everyone has a breaking point, and his breaking point is when people brush human rights violations under the rug. 

 This happens _a lot._

(Slavery is a wealthy business.) 

 All Chancellor Mothma needs to do is clear her throat, and the whole room goes silent. “Friends, please, this isn’t the time to squabble. We must come to a solution, and we must come to it now.” She turns towards the prince and his father. “Alderaan, you have been quiet. Have you anything to say?” The way her eyes flicker towards Luke, and the slight smile on her face, gives him all the permission he needs to open the floodgates and speak his mind. 

 “Thank you, Chancellor,” he says with one last air of grace before all the regal embellishments he’d been raised with fall away and are replaced with a deep, burning passion for justice. He doesn’t quite know where itcame from, but when he ignites this fire within himself, he feels _connected_ to something that he can’t quite place. “Our job as Rebels is to _rebel_ , but all we seem to be rebelling against is our own call to action,” he declares, his eyes sliding easily onto everyone in the room. He notices a few of them shuffle and fidget under his stare. He softens his voice, but keeps it firm. “I’ve seen what the Empire can do--I’ve seen this suffering first hand...Farmers forced to hand their lands over to Governor Tarkin, families driven from their homes and enslaved in labor camps--on Kessel”—

“Kessel?” demands Senator Nowel Jebel of Uyter, known for being fiscally wise and also incrediblyshrewd, “What does Kessel have to do with this? Were we not just talking about Jedha?” His gray cape balloons out beneath his arm as he gestures to Luke. “You’re a child, you have no idea what you’re talking about!” 

“Let him speak!” argues Jyn Erso. Luke remembers her when she was smaller and they both wore their hair in braids; Saw used to bring her to meetings, before he broke it off with the Alliance and pursued direct action against the Empire. The two of them would sneak under the table and whisper to each other. “Why don’t any of you listen when someone actually has something important to say!” 

“Oh, yes, this is persuasive,” Jebel shoots back dryly, “The child and the criminal telling us that we should all simply take up our weapons and fight--all because the Empire blew up some dustball with a weapon that might not even exist!” 

Jyn clenches her fists and brings one of them down on the table. “It does exist! I saw it! We all saw it! Why are you so willing to turn a blind eye to this like it doesn’t affect you!” 

 “Because.” Jebel has grown red in the face entirely, all the way down to the roots of his graying hair. “It doesn’t affect us. Jedha was not a part of the Rebel Alliance.” 

“So their lives matter less?!”Jyn feels Cassian’s hand descend onto her shoulder. Maybe he’s trying to calm her down. Or maybe he’s trying to hold her back. She doesn’t care. She shoves him off. No wonder Saw left this all behind--she should’ve done the same. She should’ve left, right after the self-righteous Rebel forces murdered her father on Eadu. “Tell me! Do their lives matter less?”  

“Jedha, Kessel, Lasan, Geonosis, Ryloth, Lothal”-- The prince’s young voice stays firm but as patient as it can possibly be as he lists off these fallen and enslaved planets on his fingers. -- “Don’t you see they’re all the same?” His eyebrows furrow and his throat tightens. “How many more lives do we have to lose--how many more _children’s_ lives until we finally decide it’s time to do what my father, Chancellor Mothma, and the late Senator Padmé Amidala”--

 It stabs Bail in the heart to hear him say her name. 

\-- “Set out to do when they sat down and formed this Rebel Alliance?” Luke clears his throat. “I’ve seen what it’s like on the ground in these places when I’ve worked with Phoenix Squadron under the authority of Captain Syndulla and Commander Sato.” _And Commander Tano_ , he reminds himself, feeling his heart crack just a little bit more.“Myself and many others have seen what it’s like first hand to be a citizen of the Empire without the privilege or protection granted to many of us in this room.” 

Luke watches Cassian where he stands towards the back of the room; his brow is furrowed, and he’s still got a hand on Jyn Erso’s shoulder. Their gazes meet, but only for a whisper of a second.  

He returns his eyes to the Cabinet. “How much suffering is too much?” he asks, “How much death is too much? How much disease, and poverty, and slavery is too much before we do something?” There’s a new shift in him now, and the entire Cabinet takes it into stock; it’s not a change, like the way he takes off one robe and replaces it with another--it’s a coming forward of something that has always been there, that is only just becoming noticeable as he speaks these words. “I did not join the Rebellion to watch innocent people suffer and die while you discuss this enslavement in a committee!” His chin lifts higher. “We were chosen to lead the galaxy into a new age of democracy and to liberate those crushed and chained by the Empire.” Luke steps back from the table and pulls in a deep breath. “If this body is not capable of action, I suggest new leadership is needed.” 

“My Force,” breathes out Admiral Gial Ackbar. The large, yellow rimmed eyes that sit on either side of his head don’t even consider blinking. “He sounds just like her.” 

Luke steps back further. Like who? He’s not trying to sound like anyone but himself. He bumps against his father’s chest, but he doesn’t run away, not even with the shocked and curious eyes of the entire Rebel Alliance pinning him down. He stands up straighter. “I stand by what I said--and I won’t back down. We have a job to do, and I suggest that after a few decades, we actually start doing it.” 

“If the Empire has this kind of power...what chance do we have?” 

Whatever rift Luke’s words seemed to open in the room closes quickly and the arguing begins anew. There will be no Rebels storming Scarif today, or tomorrow, or any other day this week. 

At least, not officially. 

The room begins to clear out, and many of the Cabinet members keep their eyes hooked on the young prince as they leave, like he’s suddenly something worth looking at. He tries not to squirm under their many, many eyes. As the crowd thins out, his father takes him gently by the elbow and pulls him aside. 

“What did I say?” he whispers, brow furrowing as he stares up at his father. “What did I do wrong?” 

“It’s not what you did wrong, my son.” Bail Organa carries with him a piece of an old legacy--one that demands respect. He’s the protector of an elegant justness, a souvenir from an age when alliances actually meant something, and those with the ability to help others usually tried to. He smiles as he lays his hand on Luke’s shoulder. “It’s what you did right.” 

“But I didn’t do anything right,” Luke protests, trying to keep himself from whining, “They’re not going to fight, and everyone’s giving up! I might as well have said nothing at all.” 

“It’s true that the Chancellor cannot formally allow our army to engage.” Our small, scrappy little army that probably never should’ve had any chance at survival, but never stops fighting. Bail wonders how long they can go on like this with so few resources, and he wonders how long they can go on rebelling from the shadows. “But you reminded us all of why we’re here, and why we started the Alliance in the first place.” 

“Everyone was staring at me...Why? Who did I sound like?” 

 The question speaks of a conversation that’s been a long time coming; but it doesn’t make it any easier for Bail to hear. Nor does will it make that tale any easier to tell. Luke is older now--he’s secured a seat in the Senate, and works directly with the Rebellion. He’s learned to juggle more responsibilities than most people his age can even imagine, and he does so with grace and elegance. What he’s seen has matured him, and what he’s lost has aged him. Perhaps now, as the day that he must give Luke away quickly approaches, it’s time for Bail to tell him that he was never his to keep. 

“That is a story for a later day,” he tells Luke openly, “One that I’ll tell you when you return with General Kenobi.” He arches an eyebrow. “You have your instructions?” 

Luke sighs. “Head straight to Tatooine, find General Kenobi, ask him to join us, and bring him back here.” 

“And?” 

 “And…” The boy purses his lips and stares at the floor. “No detours.” 

Bail’s hand drifts from Luke’s shoulder to his cheek, stroking it gently like he did when he was just a boy. He knows that if the Rebels go to Scarif against the will of the Cabinet--which they most likely will-- the no detours promise won’t be kept. 

“No matter what happens, you stay on that ship, do you understand, Luke? By no circumstances should you leave until you reach Tatooine.” He wraps his arms around his son and gives him a squeeze. Luke can serve in as many Senates as he likes, and make a thousand passionate speeches, and insist that he’s all grown up, but Bail will never stop holding him. Even when he passes him off to Captain Andor, Luke will always have a hand joined with his. “I must return home now, and tell our people that there will not be peace quite yet.” 

“I’ll contact you when I find Kenobi,” Luke promises as he lowers himself out of his father’s arms, “And I’ll be home with youand Mama in no time at all.” 

“We’ll anticipate your homecoming.” Bail releases Luke’s hand slowly. “May the Force be with you, my son.” 

Luke’s smile curves his lips in a familiar way that Bail will never tire of. “And with you, Papa.” 

 With a twirl of his cape, Viceroy Bail Organa turns his back and walks away. 

In the not-too distant future, Luke will lay on a harsh bench in a floating Imperial prison and wish that he’d run forward, wrapped his arms around his father, and begged him to not go anywhere near home.  

But now, he only kneels down and starts a conversation with the small, blue and white droid that Alderaan trusts with all its secrets. 

Cassian makes himself seen again as Viceroy Organa makes his way towards the shipyard. He’s good at living in the shadows, at residing in the corner of one’s eye; it’s being visible that he struggles with. “Sir,” he murmurs, sliding up next to him, “I understand that you have to return to Alderaan, but”--

The Viceroy stops and turns to look at him. There’s something nostalgic, almost melancholy in his eyes. It’s something that Cassian can easily read, but it’s not something he’d expected to find. He tilts his head forward, his voice firm but quiet. “I know what you wish to speak to me about, Captain, and I have been waiting for you to ask me for a very long time.” His dark eyes glance to his son as he continues speaking to Artoo towards the far corner of the meeting space. “I’ve never been fond of the idea of giving him up…” That gaze returns to Cassian, and Organa smiles with that same joyful sorrow. “But I believe that my son will be in good hands with you.”  

“I…” Cassian clears his throat. “Thank you, sir.” He doesn’t bother to tell the Viceroy that he and a handful of others are going to Scarif--he just assumes that he knows. “I won’t let him down. Or you.” 

“I can’t imagine that you could,” Organa tells him quietly, shaking his hand, “But I advise that you make your intentions clear to him now, as he has a ship to catch--and I have a feeling you do too.” 

Cassian glancesto Luke and bows his head. “Thank you, sir,” he mutters again, straightening his back. They part ways not as Rebels, or as a king and an officer, or even as men of different planets--they leave each other as men with a common uniter and a common purpose: their love for Luke and their desire to protect him. 

His walk towards Luke now is the longest, most nerve wracking trek that he’s ever had to make. It’s like climbing the slippery rocks of Eadu in the storm, and like running through the sand to escape the falling ruins of Jedha. Somehow, though, it manages to be all the more treacherous. He finds Luke kneeling on the ground, his cape puddled around him, whispering to his father’s astromech. Cassian clears his throat to make himself known, and Luke looks up at him with surprise before smiling.  

“Hello, Captain,” he greets, biting down on his lip a little to stop himself from losing his air of regality and professionalism, “Is there something I can help you with?” 

Cassian crosses his arms and hunches his back, but resists the urge to scratch the side of his nose like he always does when he’s nervous. “Can I talk to you?” he asks, and then leans forward and lowers his voice, “Alone?” 

Luke stands and wipes his trousers off. “Artoo, why don’t you get Threepio and ready the ship. I’ll meet you there in just a moment.” He and Cassian watch the stout little droid roll away, and Cassian waits until he’s out of sight before he takes Luke’s hand and guides him into the corner. “What is it?” Luke asks, brow furrowing, “What’s wrong?” He rubs his thumb over Cassian’s knuckles. “You can tell me--you can tell me anything, you know that…” 

Cassian keeps his voice down. “I’m going to Scarif--me and a few others. The odds are…” He swallows hard. “They’re slim. But we can’t do nothing.” 

“You’ll be okay,” Luke murmurs confidently, “You’ll come back, just like you always do.” He drapes his arms around Cassian’s neck and plays fondly with his hair. “And we’ll defeat the Empire, and we’ll go home and start our family. The Force will bring you home to me. I know it.”  

Force or no Force, the chances are still slim, and Cassian can trust Luke easily, but he can’t trust that some magical, cosmic energy is going to protect him from the Empire and all its weapons, super or otherwise. Believing in Luke is one thing, because Luke is here. He’s tangible, and Cassian can experience him with all his senses; he can feel his body with his hands, taste his skin with his tongue, smell his hair with his nose, hear his laughter with his ears, and see his face with his eyes. 

But the Force isn’t something that he can hold, or smell, or hear, or taste. He’s never even seen anyone use it, not even Luke. It’s not something that he can be certain of. He can’t be certain that it’s anything more than a fairy tale, and he can’t be certain that Luke’s “vision” of their life together was anything more than a wishful dream.  

Still, he says, “I know.” He’s very good at lying. “I’ll come back.” Actually, he’s excellent at lying. “Give me your hand.” He lifts his hands and his fingers tug at the chain on his dog tags. He lifts it up over his head and places the whole thing in Luke’s open palm. “That’s why I’m gonna need you to hold onto these for me.” He folds Luke’s slender fingers around them. “And when I come home, you can give them back and I’ll give you a ring.”  

Luke’s breath catches in his throat, and Cassian swears he can see all the stars in the sky in his eyes as they widen. “I…” He smiles brighter than any star, any light that Cassian has ever seen, and he reaches for his own chain. “I’ll keep them safe, if you promise to keep this safe for me.” He holds out his necklace. 

“This...this was hers,” Cassian whispers, “It means everything to you.” It’s all Luke has left of the first Fulcrum. “I can’t take it.” 

 A sadness sends a fog over the sky in Luke’s gaze. His mind has gone somewhere far away. Cassian squeezes his hand and brings him back. “You mean everything to me,” he vows, draping the chain over Cassian’s head, “And anyway--you can trade it for a ring when you get home.”  

Cassian pulls Luke into his arms tightly. He’s memorized the weight and curves of his body hundreds of times, and every time he treats it like the last. Luke is so secure in this vision he has, with an unbreakable faith in the very Force itself that Cassian can’t dare to tell him that this might truly be the last time. His throat feels like shrapnel and sand, but he pushes his words like a blaster bolt through it anyway. “I love you.”  

“I love you too.” 

 Luke loves every inch of this galaxy with passion and dedication; he loves every person, every planet, every culture, every creature. He loves every tree, and shrub, and flower. He loves every crystal and stone. If they could just find a way to harness all that bright, joyful energy, Cassian is sure that they could power this universe and others for decades--no need for power cores or converters. 

The two of them live in different worlds. Luke lives in a world where he thinks that all men are good, and everyone is worth saving and deserving of redemption. 

Cassian lives in a world where he knows that’s not the case. He wishes that he could just float through a portal, or climb over some cosmic wall, and land in Luke Organa’s blue-skied galaxy where the ground is green and plush,and hope makes everything grow.

But he can’t. 

Once an optimist has glimpsed at the darkness within the galaxy, even just for a moment, they can never return. 

Cassian gives Luke a squeeze. “I gotta go,” he murmurs.

Luke steps back and adjusts his captain’s collar for him. “I know.” He smiles. “Make sure Kay gets you home in one piece, alright?” His hand cradles the curve of Cassian’s cheek. “And be careful.” 

He won’t. “I will.” Cassian already misses having Luke in his arms. There’s already a loss there, a gaping emptiness inside his gut that gnaws at him whenever he’s without him. He ducks his head, and leans down to kiss him softly. 

The prince’s lips curve into the kiss and he pushes a little at Cassian’s chest. “Go on, go save the galaxy.” In a mere handful of hours, he’s going to regret ever saying that. But right now, he feels like an everyday person, kissing his husband at the door before he goes to work someplace delightfully boring, like a factory or a shipyard. They’ll never have that gloriously mundane sort of life, not even after the war. 

But living in a palace isn’t too bad either.  

They both turn and walk in totally separate directions, and that’s that. 

(As he leaves, Cassian slips a little something to a stout, orange little droid and tells him to hold onto it for safekeeping.)  

Luke walks briskly towards the Tantive IV, under the orders to fly directly to the outer rim and to not look back until he has General Kenobi with him. The base suddenly buzzes with a new, almost frantic activity. Pilots dash by him in flocks, leaping into their x-wings. They’re not listening to the Cabinet. They’re all going to fight. His aching desire to fly with them still stings in his chest, but he loses it in the flurry of excitement. 

 What he doesn’t lose, however, is a distant, familiar voice calling his name. 

“Prince Organa! Your highness! Wait!”  

Luke’s cloak folds like cellophane to the backs of his legs as he stops. The fabric twirls behind him as he turns around to see a young rebel jogging towards him, gloved hand outstretched. He doesn’t wait, and instead hurries back across the landing bay to meet him halfway. 

The rebel doubles over, out of breath, his dark hair falling a little from its short, well-kept style. When Luke had first met him, his hair was far wilder, and his eyes far brighter. But now, the truth clings to him like the two faint scars over his cheek. But hope and kindness hang there too, stronger than they were at the beginning, and growing by the day. 

“Your…” He takes a deep breath and his violet eyes finally slide up to reach Luke’s as he lifts his head. “Your highness—boy, am I glad to see you!” 

 Luke doesn’t smile in the regal, tight-lipped way he does around the lofty pilots and cadets. This smile is mischievous and youthful, a grin exchanged between friends. “It’s good to see you too, Commander Bridger.” 

To say that Ezra Bridger has grown up would be an understatement. He’s no longer the rambunctious, street-smart padawan that Luke knew him as in their early teens. The past four years have squared his shoulders and lengthened his body. They’ve hardened his face and softened his heart and strengthened his skill. Although he’s still training, he stands taller now, with more pride, and doesn’t hide the lightsaber clipped to his belt. He’s a Jedi now, one of only a handful left in the galaxy. 

 Even his smile has become less carefree.  

Thankfully, not too much less. 

“Heading for Scarif?” Luke asks him quietly, watching over his shoulder for any listener who might try to stop him. 

Ezra straightens up and pushes his hair back. “Uh…yeah. Don’t tell anyone, but…” His fingers comb across his scalp and land on the back of his head. “Yeah, we’re going. The Ghost is, at least. I don’t know about the rest of Phoenix Squadron.” The Ghost, its daring crew, and its fearless captain have always had a reputation for acting with or without the permission of the Chancellor, the council, or anybody else. Luke stands here talking to a member of one of the first cells to enter the organized rebellion. 

 More importantly, he stands here talking to one of his closest friends. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” he tells Ezra quietly, “But _I’m_ going too.” All he’s ever been told is to keep himself safe, to keep his distance, and to hide himself from the fight. He’s not going to hide from it anymore, not when there’s so much at stake and so few resources. “You guys are going to need all the help you can get, and _someone’s_ going to need to call reinforcements when _you_ get yourself into trouble.” Conflict flickers over Ezra's face like a crack of lighting, and Luke lifts a hand to set it on his shoulder. “You helped me once, Ezra Bridger,” he reminds him, “And now I’m going to do what I can to help you. I’m tired of being a rebel from a distance. It’s _my_ time to fight with you now.”  

Ezra hesitates before lifting his hand and setting it over Luke’s. It’s a simple touch, one between friends, but it’s also one that's too heavy to describe. It’s a solemn touch. It’s a _thank you_ , and an unsure, hesitant _goodbye_. “Thank you, your highness.” Ezra gives the prince’s hand a squeeze. “But the _second_ things get too rough, you have to leave—you have to get out, as fast as you can.” 

“The same to you, Ezra…I mean that.” His eyes land on the lightsaber clipped to Ezra’s belt. It’s a brilliant green that lights up his friend’s entire face when he ignites it. It’s one of the most beautiful things Luke has ever seen. “Your role in this is just as big as mine, if not bigger.” Ezra Bridger is one of the final Jedi. He carries with him a history that, in a blink of an eye, could vanish from existence. He’s a descendent of the galaxy’s most ancient heroes, and he and his Master have the ability to recreate the Jedi Order once all of this is done. Luke knows it doesn’t matter as much as Ezra’s lofty responsibilities, but he’s his _friend_ , and Luke couldn’t bear to lose him or any of his crew. 

There’s no lightsaber to look at on Luke’s belt, so his eyes draw to the crystal hanging from his neck. 

There’s a long silence. 

“She’d be proud of you.”

Ezra’s words vibrate and echo through Luke’s body, puncturing his heart into sharp, pointy bits. 

Luke lowers his gaze to the ground and hopes that it’s true. “Thank you.” He smiles and tries to keep the sadness pushed down as he gently pulls his hand away. “Stay safe, Ezra. May the Force be with you.” 

“You too, your highness.” 

 As they part, something stirs inside Luke’s chest that tells him that no, this isn’t goodbye.  

Something sits and shines inside him as he steps onto the Tantive IV, nodding to one of the soldiers standing by the door. This must be his first mission, because he looks green as the palm leaves outside, fresh faced, and absolutely terrified.

“Officer,” he greets. 

“Your highness,” replies the cadet, making sure that each word he says is carefully picked and spoken, “Ready for your voyage to Tatooine?” 

Luke smiles wryly. “We’ve had a change of plans, officer…please tell the captain to set course for Scarif.” 

The young Cadet’s eyes nearly fall out of his skull. “Scarif, your highness?” he asks warily, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks for the tell of a well disguised joke on the prince’s face. He only becomes more discouraged when he doesn’t find it. 

Luke smiles and lowers his head. “Yes, sir, if you wouldn’t mind. It seems like everyone is being redirected.”

 “Uh…” His face goes blank as he tries to register the information before he blinks a few times. It’s a nervous habit of his, blinking. Sometimes, when he’s truly panicked, he blinks so many times in a row that he can’t even see. The world just cuts in and out of darkness too quickly. “Yes! Yes, sir, of course sir, I knew that, sir.” 

“Thank you, officer.” Luke smiles and glances over his shoulder. “Officer, have you seen”—

“ _Scarif_? We’re going to _Scarif_? Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything, Artoo?” 

There they are. Luke beckons to the droids with a simple fold of his hand. “Artoo, Threepio,” he calls, “We should get going now, don’t you think?” He doesn’t need to yell for them—all he needs to do is speak a little louder than usual, and Artoo comes rolling over, giving Threepio a hard nudge to get him moving. 

“Ah!” The tall, gold droid wobbles a little as he shuffled along. “I don’t see why you felt the need to _push_ me, Artoo Deeto, it was hardly necessary—my highness, did you see that? He pushed me!” 

 Luke smiles and resists the childish urge to roll his eyes. “What matters is that we have to leave now, Threepio—we don’t want to be late.”  

“Late!” Threepio scoffs, “Why, I’ve never been _late_ in my entire inorganic life, your highness! Punctuality is in my programming!” 

 Sighing, Luke lifts his arm to gently guide the droids up the ramp and into the ship. “And we don’t want that to start now, do we?” He loves these droids, he truly does—they’ve been his metal companions since birth, and had served the Republic during the fated Clone Wars. During his childhood, Threepio had behaved much like a nanny (although he always fervently insisted that he was nothing of the sort, and was, in fact, a protocol droid, fluent in over six million _blah blah blah blah blah_ ), waddling along after Luke and telling him that no, he may not go there, no, he may not touch that, and _no_ , he is not under _any circumstances_ to put _that_ in his mouth. Artoo had always been more of a friend than a caretaker, helping him to play silly practical jokes on the palace staff and aiding in his speedy getaway by letting Luke cling to him as he soared through the halls. 

 But, as much as he loves them, those old rustbuckets still drive him absolutely _mad_. 

 He follows them up the ramp and turns to take one last look at the base. For the first time, it’s really, truly _alive_. After today, everything is going to change. After today, they’re finally going to be rebels. They’re going to be _unified_. 

Luke lifts his hood over his head and steps back, allowing the ramp to close. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back in business babey!!! ٩(♡∀♡)۶ welcome to the fifth installment of the longest fic i'll ever write! thank you so much for your patience--i had an edition of chapter five written and completed, and then lost it when my old laptop was lost in a fatal ginger ale accident. it took me quite a bit of time to rewrite it, but here's chapter five, new and improved. 
> 
> a few things: like i said in chapter one, i will be including a list of potential triggers below. most of the time, i would put context at the end of the chapter as not to spoil the story, but these have been spoiled by earlier chapters/canon anyway: 
> 
> -baby talk from previous chapters   
> -death, because everyone on scarif still dies sorry 
> 
> saying goodbye to cassian was pretty hard tbh :'( but now we have moved out of the rogue one exposition phase, and into the original trilogy plot phase. some new characters appear in this chapter who are obviously going to be very important to the plot. 
> 
> i DO have a question for my readers, however, and that is this:   
> do you think i should change the title? i kind of wanted to base the style of this series (because yes, this is gonna be a series) off of the star wars novels, and those titles are always like "STAR WARS: blah blah blah". so if you guys think that i should keep the current title, or should i change it to a more official sounding one. and if you like the change, feel free to comment and suggest ideas! 
> 
> i haven't been using my tumblr as much lately since school has started, but feel free to contact me there at @poehomo ! 
> 
> and now, sit back, relax, and enjoy! 
> 
> ( ° ∀ ° )ﾉ

_ 0 BBY, Scarif  _

 

“Goodbye, Cassian.” 

 

With one second left until total shutdown, K-2SO chooses to mentally simulate an impossible scenario in which Cassian Andor escapes Scarif. It’s a scenario where he returns, bruised and battered but  _ alive _ onto Yavin IV and tumbles into the arms of his beloved, who will nurse him back to health. It’s a scenario where they will be wed on Alderaan’s royal patio, the snowdrops blooming and the white-capped mountains painting a picturesque landscape behind them. It’s a scenario where Cassian will meet his child and know them, being present for every step of their life. It’s one where Cassian Andor will die--as all organic things must--when his hands are wrinkled and his eyes can no longer see as sharply as they used to, in the arms of someone who loves him.

 

The simulation pleases him.

  
  


_ 0 BBY, Tantive IV, Imperial Occupied Space  _

 

Nothing could have prepared Luke for the rush of battle as his ship lurched out of hyperspace. The low hum of the stars rushing past them, the clam lines of light, the deafening silence. It’s all gone now, and in its place is nothing but mayhem and chaos. X-Wings and TIE fighters spit bolts of light at one another, before they both explode in a glorious display of smoke and fire. But it’s not the screeching engines and shrieking blasters that hurt his ears; it’s the final cries of those inside them. Each death hits him like blaster fire. A bolt to the shoulder, to the stomach, to the heart. 

 

It’s enough to make him grip the control panel in front of him for support. But not enough to make him run away. He’s in the thick of it now, and through this dark feeling of  _ wrong _ , something still feels right. 

 

He was always meant to be here. To witness where it all starts. 

 

But what he didn’t expect was to feel it end. 

 

Luke steps closer to the front window of his ship, something he ought to know better not to do. He feels a pull towards it, deep within him, like there’s something magnetic, something  _ genetic  _ which draws him to the chaos. He lays his palm flat against the window, wincing and turning his head as another TIE bursts into flames right before his eyes. He tries to blink, but the image won’t go away, and the feeling of death sinks deep into his stomach. He wants to fall to his knees and vomit until all the grief inside of him is gone. 

 

But what he wants isn’t what matters. What is wanted  _ of _ him, needed of him, is what rules his actions. 

 

“Your highness!” Captain Antiles grasps his arm and pulls him away from the window. Luke stumbles after him, but his eyes remain glued on the tapestry laid out  before him like a holochess board that screams and wails as each piece is taken by one player or another. “You’d best get away from there, sir.” 

 

“I’m fine…I’m fine.” But Luke leans heavily against him and allows the young soldier to guide him back to his seat by the control panel. “Thank you. Is someone manning the blasters?” 

 

“I’m not sure how much good our blasters will do, sir,” Antilles confesses, “But yes, we’ve got quite a few men down there. Good men and women. Best shots in the galaxy.” 

 

Again, Luke feels that draw. It starts as a tug in his head, like a string between his eyes that forces him to look up. Then, it leads him closer. He stands against the control panel and squints. “Captain…?” he asks, eyebrows drawing together as he peers closer towards the window. “What is that?” 

 

Antilles steps closer to him, tilting his head in an attempt to see what Luke sees. But it’s not a sight as much as a feeling. A morbid curiosity, and a dread building up inside his gut. 

 

“I don’t quite see what you mean, sir. There’s plenty to see here, you might have to narrow it down.” 

 

In this pensive moment, Luke fails to hear the cry of glee over the radio, declaring that the Empire’s blueprints for their superweapon are now in the hands of the Rebel Alliance. All he can feel is a strange, sinking sensation that something isn’t quite right. The feeling soon becomes physical, as something large and dark emerges above them, like a moon falling out of orbit. 

 

“That.” Luke points to the shape as it grows and grows. “It’s unlike any moon I’ve ever seen,” he breathes, gripping onto the control panel so he can get a closer look without falling over, “It feels...alive, almost.” It’s a feeling that he recognizes, that strikes something deep and ancient inside the very wrappings of his DNA; it wakes up something within him that never quite sleeps, but often dozes. Immediately, his hand reaches for the kyber around his neck, before he realizes that it isn’t there. The feeling of it is there, the sensation of something still and solid, but so alive. A heart of kyber. “It’s not a moon.” He whips his head around to seek the captain’s eyes desperately. “It’s not a moon! Get our pilots out of there, get everyone off the ground! It’s not a moon!” 

 

The crater within the monstrous not-moon begins to ignite--a sickening, awful green glow. It’s the green of greed, of corruption, of discord. The kind of green one feels when they’re ill. Lasers shoot from several points from the edge of the crater, meeting in the middle in a ball of light and raw, terrifying power. Then, slowly, it begins to extend away from the crater in a single line, which grows longer and longer as it shoots across the dark sky. 

 

Luke slams his hand on the radio and tries his best not to scream. He has to keep his voice steady, to be an island in the storm. “This is the  _ Tantive IV _ ,” he hisses, getting as close to the microphone as he can, like it will make his voice go further, “Everyone get out! I repeat,  _ get out _ ! Rendezvous back at base! Regroup”-- His hands and voice tremble, but suddenly his words go silent. They’re choked out of him as he realizes that the horrid green light isn’t chasing after Alliance ships. His knees buckle. It’s headed straight for the planet’s surface. 

 

He falls back against his seat as it strikes the water far beyond the citadel. 

 

_ 0 BBY, Scarif  _

 

_ Do you think anyone’s listening?  _

 

The question echoes over and over in Cassian’s mind as he collapses next to Jyn into the rough, coarse, irritating sand. He watches the emerald light streak through the clouds above before crashing into the ocean. The plans, beamed into the sky, are their final wills and testimonies. Their parting words, their last goodbyes. And he knows they won’t fall upon deaf ears, but he wonders if they’ll reach the people who need them the most. 

 

The water begins to rise, with fire and smoke and the very core of the planet, around the sinkhole created by the laser. It draws closer rapidly, until there is no horizon. 

 

Even with no horizon ahead, Cassian thinks towards it. Jyn leans into him, and he wraps himself in her touch, curls himself around her body, both of them seeking a friend for the end of the world. They can offer each other three final comforts; the first, that they have been heard, the second, that they will be remembered, and the third, that neither of them will have to leave this galaxy alone. 

 

This isn’t how he wanted to die. 

 

His life has been long and hard, with very little comfort. It’s been a life of tears, and the righteous anger that comes once the tears have dried. But he has found beauty in this galaxy. He has smelled the red and yellow jebwa flowers of Corellia, and tasted the salty seas of Rimbaux Four, and heard the plucking of a Zeltronian lute. He has seen the stars at their most intimate, rushing past him in hyperspace. He has stood beneath twin suns and twin moons alike, feeling their warmth and feeling their chill--all the while, marveling at the idea that there is a match for everyone and everything, no matter the distance. 

 

As his hand grips at the back of her jacket, he likes to imagine, just for a moment, that he’s holding his prince one last time. He imagines Luke’s clothes, always soft and clean beneath his fingers. He imagines the silk of his cloak, and the cold metal of the tall, silver cuffs that adorn each wrist and forearm. He imagines his skin, soft and peachy, and the sporadic birthmarks scattered in places that only he has been lucky enough to kiss. He imagines the length of his body, lean in some places and soft in others. Cassian remembers every little detail about him, even the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheek when they lay so close together. 

 

This isn’t how he wanted to die, but at least he will die knowing he did something. He helped people, good people, and brought the Empire one step closer to extinction every time he did so. He always thought that living for the Rebellion was the most important thing he would ever do.  But perhaps this, his last fight, his final victory wrapped up in loss, is the greatest gift that he could give to this galaxy. When these plans are used to destroy this weapon and bring the Empire crumbling to its knees, it will be because of them. Because of what they’re giving up. 

 

There’s no way that either of them are getting out of this alive. There’s not going to be a sudden rescue at the last conceivable moment, and the path of the Death Star isn’t going to cease at the toe of his boot. This is it. It’s over. They’re going to die. It’s not the best case scenario, but it’s one that Cassian can make peace with. He hasn’t made peace with it, but he has a few more seconds until all his atoms dissolve--a few more seconds that he can use to process exactly what it is that’s going to happen. 

 

It’s going to be quick and painless, probably. He’ll close his eyes, grip Jyn tighter, and in a blinding flicker of a moment, it will be like he never existed at all. 

 

But he will have existed, and he will not be lost in the shuffle of passing time. Cassian Andor has planted his legacy with the Rebellion, and with Luke as well. 

 

The Rebels will receive the plans. They’ll rejoice, and they’ll mourn. The few who knew him will say “What a shame” and the one who loved him will weep, the cells of their child multiplying by the trillions inside his body all the while. 

 

The Death Star will be destroyed. 

 

The Resistance will succeed. 

 

The Empire will go down in flames. 

 

His child will grow up in a free world and know that their father gave his life to save them from an enemy that they will never know.

 

Their child, who already exists, who Cassian’s hand has touched, even if only once. That simple touch, with boundaries of silk and skin between them, is the only contact he’ll ever have with them. It’s nothing short of an elbow-brushing with the divine. He’ll never get to see their face, or hear their cries. He’ll never see them walk, or hear them speak. He’ll never see them dance, or hear them sing. They’ll grow up without him, with only stories and a blurry, blue shadow to put a face to the name. 

 

But they’ll be okay. They’ll turn out okay. 

 

The sky burns brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter, until Cassian can nearly feel the kiss of death sizzling against his skin. In that last moment, he grips Jyn closer and opens his eyes to the end as it grows near. He looks to the end, and to the beginning. His end, their end, the end of the Empire, and the start of something new, fragile, and beautiful. 

 

All at once, the sky burns out, and Cassian Andor and Jyn Erso are scorched from face of the galaxy. 

 

They did good. They were enough. 

 

_ 0 BBY, Tantive IV, Imperial Occupied Space  _

 

Luke never imagined that he would ever see this kind of desolation. Furthermore, he never imagined that he’d see it happen so quickly. The light from the Death Star struck the ocean, and upheaved the planet around it, until a tsunami of destruction wiped the entire base from existence. 

 

A disturbance in the Force rocks through his body; it’s as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror...and were suddenly silenced. It strikes him right at his core, and his entire being cracks into a fault-line against it. He can’t feel the burning on his skin, but he can feel it inside, red hot and fast, beating against him and making him molten and pliable. He drops forward for a moment, gripping the control panel. He feels boneless, like the surface below him is the only thing keeping him from melting into the ground. His hand lifts to the window, as if the feeling of the cool glass against his skin solidifies the fact that this is real. 

 

All those lives...all that loss. At least for those below it was merciful and quick. Perhaps the anticipation of death hurt more than the rush of water, debris, and flame. But for those who will live to tell the tale, it will always hurt like burns across the soul, charred and tender. 

 

Luke gulps in a sharp, shaky breath. That need to vomit his grief onto the floor rolls through him again but he swallows it, lifting his head and pushing himself back against the seat. His fingers quake violently as they slide across the many buttons on the control panel. He barely has the strength to press down on one and open up the radio connection. 

 

“Rogue One, this--this is Tantive IV, do...do you copy?” He can barely recognize his own voice, hoarse and thick and shaky. It doesn’t even register that he’s even speaking. All he can hear is the deafening silence on the other end of the line. “Rogue One...do you copy?  _ Do you copy _ ?” The thoughts come quickly, but the feelings refuse to go away. They stick to him like mud or tar. “Captain Andor-- _ do you copy _ ?” Cassian has always been a quiet man; he’s a keeper of many secrets, none more precious than his own, but this is a different kind of silence. It’s not the tense kind that sparks between them after an argument, or the calm, cozy kind that warms his quarters whenever they lay together, both reading or dozing. It’s simply...empty in a way that scoops Luke’s guts out and splatters them onto the floor. 

 

He takes a breath. 

 

And then another. 

 

And then another, and another, but he can’t seem to get enough air, and his lungs feel too big and too small at the same time. 

 

Quietly, terrified, he reaches out one last time. Both with his voice and with his mind. “Cassian…?” 

 

Radio silence. 

 

_ 0 BBY, The Death Star, Imperial Occupied Space  _

 

Wilhuff Tarkin stares from the bridge as his extraordinary machine tears a deep gash across the surface of the Scarif base, burying all those below in the debris. The galaxy will remember his name, his glory, his creation. And Orson Krennic will be forgotten, blasted into smithereens by the love of his life: the Death Star. It’s a shame, really. Krennic had quite the potential, but he overestimated his value to the Empire. There are hundreds of thousands of engineering geniuses in this galaxy, foaming at the mouth to be discovered and recognized. Perhaps they will be smart enough to take their scraps and not ask for more. 

 

Those lost today will not remembered. Their names will be nothing but sand trickling through the fist of time. Their faces? Even less. 

 

Faces don’t matter much to the Empire. The helmets give their soldiers a sense of anonymity, of uniformity. However, most importantly, their helmets serve as a reminder, one that says  _ this is what you are _ . A stormtrooper will never become anything more than that, and if they do, they probably shouldn’t have been given the helmet in the first place. This is what you are, this is what you’re good for, nothing more and nothing less. 

 

Orson Krennic forgot what he was and what he was good for, and look what happened to him. 

 

The same thing that happens to everyone else who believes that they’re anything more than a brick in the wall, a stone in the fortress. 

 

Tarkin catches a glimpse of his own gaunt reflection in the window. He’s already blended into the scenery here. In fact, he feels that he is a part of the station itself, as if their own little planet of metal and kyber is a mere extension of everything he is. If those around him are all parts of the same machine, he is truly the thing that makes it run. He is where all the power originates. 

 

This is his ship, and he will go down with it if he must. 

 

Though he doubts that the need will ever arise.

 

He has deployed Lord Vader and his...associates to deal with the Rebel fleet. If they are truly deserving of the high praise granted to them by the Emperor, a few ships ought to be no problem. Tarkin lifts his hand to his chin, staring shrewdly at the Rebellion’s sad attempt at an army. However, the plans to his celestial power have been beamed up into the galaxy, and he wonders how much of this will just be damage control and doling out punishments. He makes a mental note not to underestimate the Rebellion in the future. They have done far more than expected with far less resources than the Empire. 

 

However, they will not go far. 

 

The Empire is like a machine; polished, well-supplied, resilient, and easy to repair. The Rebellion is much like an organism; it has heart, but it’s clumsy, and scatterbrained. 

 

And when it dies--and it will die--it dies for good.

 

_ 0 BBY, Tantive IV, Imperial Occupied Space  _

 

“...sir?” 

 

Luke’s stomach lurches as he watches the debris spread across the surface of Scarif. There’s nothing in his ears except the screaming, deafening silence of Cassian’s absence. The feeling of him didn’t even flicker out and vanish, it’s just...gone. It’s gone. 

 

He’s gone. 

 

“Sir.” Captain Antilles grips his arm firmly. “You’re shaking, sir. You should sit down.” 

 

Luke doesn’t even feel his body moving as Captain Antilles lowers him into a chair. He can’t feel the hand on his shoulder, or his feet on the ground, or his hips and back against the seat. All he can feel is the loss, like someone had just punched a gaping hole inside of him and left him at the top of a mountain.

 

The air is thin, and his blood is running cold. 

 

It’s not just Cassian, either. It’s the entire base. It’s thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people, Empire and Resistance alike, just... _ not there anymore _ . 

 

Luke isn’t a child. He’s known death. He’s seen it, and felt it, and heard it. He’s seen children succumb to starvation and illness on war-torn worlds like Ryloth, heard the air raids and the drop of bombs onto the desert below. He’s felt someone he loved as they were ripped away from him. 

 

He felt it, deep in his bones, as she was struck down. 

 

His hand reaches for the kyber crystal she had given him when he was too small to appreciate what it was. It’s only when his fingers brush the smooth metal of Cassian’s dog tags that he remembers that it’s gone.

 

_ “You have to be careful with this, Luke,”  _ she had told him as she draped the chain around his neck,  _ “Kyber crystals are rare, and magical. No matter where I am, and no matter where you are, I’ll always be with you. And as long as you hold onto this, you’ll always have a piece of me.”  _

 

He gave that piece away. Traded it for a gift from someone else who was just ripped ripped away from him. And now it’s gone. And he’s gone too. 

 

It feels like he’s losing her all over again. 

 

It’s more of a shock than anything else. He sits there, staring blankly out the window at the carnage below and the carnage above, and he can’t even cry. He feels everything and nothing all at once. Every single cell in his body falls to its knees and screams, but a cold, heavy numbness pushes at him from all sides. Like a droid running low on battery, Luke shuts down. 

 

_ 0 BBY, The Destroyer, Imperial Occupied Space  _

 

Exiting hyperspace always comes with the stomach-churning sensation of being thrown forward a few steps. Each time, several Stormtroopers  lurch forward a bit, and occasionally, one even falls flat onto their face. Once, the thrust out of hyperspace was so strong that a soldier lost his balance and cracked his helmet against the wall. 

 

If Lord Vader found this amusing, he did not say as much. 

 

As the  _ Destroyer _ breaks through the tunnel of shooting stars and zips into the battle above the Scarif base, most of the ‘troopers on board shuffle forward a bit, but none of them fall. Lord Vader doesn’t even shift. His boots, heavy and steel, keep him cemented to the ground. He seems to have his own center of gravity--or perhaps gravity revolves around him entirely, because he never so much as stumbles, but those who stand in his presence seem to fall all over the place to please him. 

 

Lord Vader is the physical embodiment of the power of the Empire. No one sees Emperor Palpatine these days, and there aren’t many left around who even remember what he looked like before his encounter with the traitorous Jedi. He’s merely an invisible hand, choking any breath of resistance from his galaxy. But Lord Vader is the fist. 

 

And the girls...they are the blades. 

 

They stand beside him, looking straight onto the bridge. They blink in tandem. 

 

The first of them stands at only five standard feet. However, she looks down upon everyone she sees, and therefore appears to be much taller. Her dark hair has been braided and gathered at the top of her head. Two braids swing below her ears in hoops before traveling back to the short tower of hair sitting like a crown. Her upper lip has been lined and filled with black, but her lower lip bears only a single black line down the center. Her eyes, lined with heavy charcoal around the lids, glow a deep, burning gold. They are the color of power. 

 

But not the color they once were. 

 

The high neck of her sleeveless black jacket does little to cover the layered bands around her neck which hold up her gown. On another woman, when those bands were silver and held together a sunset of silk, the item looked like jewelry. However, on this girl, with her round cheeks powdered and adorned with small black circles, it looks much more like a collar--one that reminds her of her place, and one that reminds Lord Vader what she is, she belongs to. Like him, she is nothing but property--property belonging to Emperor Palpatine himself. 

 

She flexes her gloved fingers, and Vader can see them twitch with the desire to have her weapons in her hands and to just  _ go  _ already. She’s an impatient little thing, and the flight through hyperspace has left her agitated and eager to destroy. 

 

“It should’ve been the entire planet,” she hisses, breaking the silence. 

 

“What?” The second girl’s voice is muffled by the round helmet over her head. She’s taller than her companion, and stands with her feet at hip-width apart, her gloved hands clasped behind her back. 

 

Unlike the young woman beside her, swaddled in a long gown that slowly blends upward from black to red, the Eighth Sister wears a simple black uniform that covers her entire body. Armored pads adorn each shoulder, her elbows, and her knees. Her belt slings tightly around her middle, and clipped to the right side lays a hollow metal disk, folded into a half-moon against her waist. A heavy hilt separates the two halves of the circular weapon, and a bud sits on each end, waiting to explode with the fiery red blades of her lightsaber. 

 

Although her voice carries the weight and edge of confusion, her body language does not betray her. She stands as she was taught, tall and unwavering. 

 

The Maiden’s hand gestures sweepingly before the wide window, fingers tilted towards the destruction of the Scarif base. 

 

“It would have been much wiser to use the weapon to destroy the entire planet,” she explains nonchalantly, “The fleet would have been obliterated by the blast, it would have proven once and for all that the Empire is not to be trifled with.” 

 

As the  _ Destroyer _ approaches the Rebel fleet, Eighth Sister’s hand reaches for the discus at her belt. As she takes it, the halves of the circle unfold, and it begins to spin around the hilt rapidly. 

 

“You’re right,” she replies easily. With a low hum, the beams of red light on either side of the blade ignite. “But what fun would that leave for us?” 

 

Small, gloved hands vanish beneath the Maiden’s jacket. They withdraw, and in each one there lies a curved hilt. With a flick of her wrist, the lightsabers burst to life, the dark red casting a shadow over the small, smug smile on her dark lips. 

 

“You are so right.” 


End file.
